DUKE 

UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/lifeoffriedrichs02carl 


THE  WORKS 


OF 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 


LIFE  OF  SCHILLER— GERMAN  LITERATURE— 
CAGLIOSTRO— LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE.  Etc. 


NEW  YORK 

•JOHN  E.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 
1885 


THE  LIFE 


OF 


FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER 


COMPREHENDING 


AN  EXAMINATION  OF  HIS  WORKS 


BY 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 

Cf  L+  l+% 


Quique  pii  vates  et  Phoebo  digna  locuti.— VrRGiL 
[1825] 


WITH  SUPPLEMENT  OF  1873 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN;  PUBLISHER, 

1885. 


TROW'S 

PRINTING  ANO  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NgW  YORK. 


■s *5  acts 
•C  sittfcA 


COM  TESTS. 

PAGE 

Preface  to  Second  Edition 5 

PART  I. 

Schiller's  Youth  (1759-1784) 7 

PART  n. 

From  ms  Settlement  at  Mannheim  to- iiis  Settlement  at 

Jena  (1783-1790) 40 

PART  IH. 

From  :ils  Settlement  at  Jena  to  iiis  Death  (1790-1805) 101 

SUPPLEMENT  OE  1872. 

Of  Schiller  s Parentage,  Boyhood  and  Youth 202 

APPENDIX. 

No.  1.  Daniel  Schubart 278 

2.  Letters  of  Schuller 289 

3.  Friendship  cviih  Goethe 302 

4.  Death  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 304 


Summary 307 

Index 314 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION. 
[1845.] 


The  excuse  for  reprinting  this  somewhat  insignificant  Book 
is,  that  certain  parties,  of  the  pirate  species,  were  preparing  to 
reprint  it  for  me.  There  are  books,  as  there  are  horses,  wThich 
a judicious  owner,  on  fair  survey  of  them,  might  prefer  to  ad- 
just by  at  once  shooting  through  the  head  : but  in  the  case  of 
books,  owing  to  the  pirate  species,  that  is  not  possible.  Re- 
mains therefore  that  at  least  dirty  paper  and  errors  of  the  press 
be  guarded  against ; that  a poor  Book,  which  has  still  to  walk 
this  world,  do  walk  in  clean  linen,  so  to  speak,  and  pass  its 
few  and  evil  days  with  no  blotches  but  its  own  adhering  to  it. 

There  have  been  various  new  Lives  of  Schiller  since  this 
one  first  saw  the  light great  changes  in  our  notions,  in- 
formations, in  our  relations  to  the  Life  of  Schiller,  and  to 
other  things  connected  therewith,  during  that  long  time  ! 
Into  which  I could  not  in  the  least  enter  on  the  present  occa- 
sion. Such  errors,  one  or  two,  as  lay  corrigible  on  the  sur- 
face,  I have  pointed  out  by  hei’e  and  there  a Note  as  I read ; 
but  of  en’ors  that  lay  deeper  there  could  no  chai’ge  be  taken  : 
to  break  the  sui’face,  to  tear-up  the  old  substance,  and  model 
it  anew,  was  a task  that  lay  far  from  me, — that  would  have 
been  frightful  to  me.  What  was  written  l’emains  written  ; 
and  the  Readei’,  by  way  of  constant  commentai’y,  when  needed, 
has  to  say  to  himself,  “ It  was  written  Twenty  years  ago.”  For 
newer  instruction  on  Schiller’s  Biography  he  can  consult  the 
Schillers  Leben  of  Madame  von  Wollzogen,  which  Goethe  once 
called  a Schiller  Redivivus  ; the  Brief  wechsel  zwischen  Schiller 
und  Goethe ; — or,  as  a summary  of  the  whole,  and  the  readi- 
est inlet  to  the  general  subject  for  an  English  reader,  Sir  Ed- 


0 


PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION. 


Wal'd  Bulwer's  Sketch  of  Schillers  Lfe,  a vigorous  and  lively 
piece  of  writing,  prefixed  to  his  Translations  from  Schiller. 

The  present  little  Book  is  very  imperfect : — but  it  pretends 
also  to  be  very  harmless  ; it  can  innocently  instruct  those  who 
are  more  ignorant  than  itself ! To  which  ingenuous  class,  ac- 
cording to  their  wants  and  tastes,  let  it,  with  all  good  wishes, 
and  hopes  to  meet  afterwards  in  fruitfuler  provinces,  be  heart- 
ily commended. 

T.  Carlyle. 

London , 7th  May  1845. 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


PART  I. 

SCHILLERS  YOUTH. 

(1759-1784.) 

Among  the  writers  of  the  concluding  part  of  the  last  century 
there  is  none  more  deserving  of  our  notice  than  Friedrich 
Schiller.  Distinguished  alike  for  the  splendour  of  his  intel- 
lectual faculties,  and  the  elevation  of  his  tastes  and  feelings,  he 
has  left  behind  him  in  his  works  a noble  emblem  of  these  great 
qualities : and  the  reputation  which  he  thus  enjoys,  and  has 
merited,  excites  our  attention  the  more,  on  considering  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  was  acquired.-  Schiller  had 
peculiar  difficulties  to  strive  with,  and  his  success  has  like- 
wise been  peculiar;  Much  of  his  life  was  deformed  by  in- 
quietude and  disease,  and  it  terminated  at  middle  age ; he 
composed  in  a language  then  scarcely  settled  into  form,  or 
admitted  to  a rank  among  the  cultivated  languages  of  Europe  : 
yet  his  writings  are  remarkable  for  their  extent  and  variety 
as  well  as  their  intrinsic  excellence  ; and  his  own  countrymen 
are  not  his  only,  or  perhaps  his  principal  admirers.  It  is 
difficult  to  collect  or  interpret  the  general  voice  ; but  tile 
W orld,  ho  less  than  Germany,  seems  already  to  have  dignified 
him  with  the  reputation  of  a classic  ; to  have  enrolled  him 
among  that  select  number  whose  works  belong  not  wholly  to 
any  age  or  nation,  but  who,  having  instructed  their  own  con- 
temporaries, are  claimed  as  instructors  by  the  great  family  of 
mankind,  and  set  apart  for  many  centimes  from  the  common 
oblivion  which  soon  overtakes  the  mass  of  authors,  as  it  does 
the  mass  of  other  men. 


8 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Sucli  lias  been  the  high  destiny  of  Schillei’.  His  history 
and  character  deserve  our  study  for  more  than  one  reason. 
A natural  and  harmless  feeling  attracts  us  towards  such  a 
subject ; we  are  anxious  to  know  how  so  great  a man  passed 
through  the  world,  how  he  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  his  be- 
ing ; and  the  question,  if  properly  investigated,  might  yield 
advantage  as  well  as  pleasure.  It  would  be  interesting  to  dis- 
cover by  what  gifts  and  what  employment  of  them  he  reached 
the  eminence  on  which  we  now  see  him  ; to  follow  the  steps 
of  his  intellectual  and  moral  culture  ; to  gather  from  his  life 
and  works  some  picture  of  himself.  It  is  worth  inquiring, 
whether  he,  who  could  represent  noble  actions  so  well,  did 
himself  act  nobly  ; how  those  powers  of  intellect,  which  in 
philosophy  and  art  achieved  so  much,  applied  themselves  to 
the  every-day  emergencies  of  life  ; how  the  generous  ardour, 
which  delights  us  in  his  poetry,  displayed  itself  in  the  com- 
mon intercourse  between  man  and  man.  It  woyld  at  once 
instruct  and  gratify  us  if  we  could  understand  him  thor- 
oughly, could  transport  ourselves  into  his  circumstances  out- 
ward and  inward,  could  see  as  he  saw,  and  feel  as  he  felt. 

But  if  the  vaiious  utility  of  such  a task  is  palpable  enough, 
its  difficulties  are  not  less  so.  We  should  not  lightly  think 
of  comprehending  the  very  simplest  character,  in  all  its  bear- 
ings ; and  it  might  argue  vanity  to  boast  of  even  a common 
acquaintance  with  one  like  Schiller’s.  Such  men  as  he  are 
misunderstood  by  their  daily  companions,  much  more  by  the 
distant  observer,  who  gleans  his  information  from  scanty 
records,  and  casual  notices  of  characteristic  events,  which  biog- 
raphers are  often  too  indolent  or  injudicious  to  collect,  and 
which  the  peaceful  life  of  a man  of  letters  usually  supplies  in 
little  abundance.  The  published  details  of  Schiller’s  history 
are  meagre  and  insufficient  ; and  his  writings,  like  those  of 
every  author,  can  afford  but  a dim  and  dubious  copy  of  his 
mind.  Nor  is  it  easy  to  decipher  even  this,  with  moderate 
accuracy.  The  haze  of  a foreign-  language,  of  foreign  man- 
ners, and  modes  of  thinking  strange  to  us,  confuses  and  ob- 
scures the  sight,  often  magnifying  what  is  trivial,  softening 
what  is  rude,  and  sometimes  hiding  or  distorting  what  is 


SCHILLER’S  YOUTH. 


9 


beautiful.  To  take  the  dimensions  of  Schiller’s  mind  were  a 
hard  enterprise,  in  any  case  ; harder  still  with  these  impedi- 
ments. 

Accordingly  we  do  not,  in  this  place,  pretend  to  attempt  it : 
we  have  no  finished  portrait  of  his  character  to  offer,  no  for- 
mal estimate  of  his  works.  It  will  be  enough  for  us  if,  in 
glancing  over  his  life,  we  can  satisfy  a simple  curiosity,  about 
the  fortunes  and  chief  peculiarities  of  a man  connected  with 
us  by  a bond  so  kindly  as  that  of  the  teacher  to  the  taught,  the 
giver  to  the  receiver  of  mental  delight ; if,  in  wandering 
through  his  intellectual  creation,  we  can  enjoy  once  more  the 
magnificent  and  fragrant  beauty  of  that  fairy  land,  and  ex- 
press our  feelings,  where  we  do  not  aim  at  j udging  and  decid- 
ing. 


Johann  Christoph  Friedrich  Schiller  was  a native  of  Mar- 
bacli,  a small  town  of  Wiirtemberg,  situated  on  the  banks  of 
the  Neckar.  He  was  born  on  the  10th  of  November  1759, — 
a few  months  later  than  our  own  Robert  Burns.  Schiller’s 
early  culture  was  favoured  by  the  dispositions,  but  obstructed 
by  the  outward  circumstances  of  his  parents.  Though  removed 
above  the  pressure  of  poverty,  their  station  was  dependent 
and  fluctuating  ; it  involved  a frequent  change  of  place  and 
plan.  Johann  Caspar  Schiller,  the  father,  had  been  a surgeon 
in  the  Bavarian  army ; he  served  in  the  Netherlands  during 
the  Succession  War.  After  his  return  home  to  Wiirtemberg, 
he  laid  aside  the  medical  profession,  having  obtained  a com- 
mission of  ensign  and  adjutant  under  his  native  Prince.  This 
post  he  held  successively  in  two  regiments ; he  had  changed 
into  f he  second,  and  was  absent  on  active  duty  when  Friedrich 
was  born.  The  Peace  of  Paris  put  an  end  to  his  military  em- 
ployment ; but  Caspar  had  shown  himself  an  intelligent,  un- 
assuming and  useful  man,  and  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg  was 
willing  to  retain  him  in  his  service.  The  laying-out  of  various 
nurseries  and  plantations  in  the  pleasure-grounds  of  Ludwigs- 
burg  and  Solitude  was  intrusted  to  the  retired  soldier,  now 
advanced  to  the  rank  of  captain : he  removed  from  one  estab- 
lishment to  another,  from  time  to  time ; and  continued  in  the 


10 


TEE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  RICE  SCHILLER. 


Duke’s  pay  till  death.  In  his  later  years  he  resided  chiefly  at 
Ludwigsburg. 

This  mode  of  life  was  not  the  most  propitious  for  educating 
such  a boy  as  Friedrich ; but  the  native  worth  of  his  parents 
did  more  than  compensate  for  the  disadvantages  of  their 
worldly  condition  and  their  limited  acquirements  in  knowledge. 
The  benevolence,  the  modest  and  prudent  integrity,  the  true 
devoutness  of  these  good  people  shone  forth  at  an  after  period, 
expanded  and  beautified  in  the  character  of  their  son ; his 
heart  was  nourished  by  a constant  exposure  to  such  influences, 
and  thus  the  better  part  of  his  education  prospered  well.  The 
mother  was  a woman  of  many  household  virtues ; to  a warm 
affection  for  her  children  and  husband  she  joined  a degree  of 
taste  and  intelligence  which  is  of  much  rarer  occurrence.  She 
is  said  to  have  been  a lover  of  poetry  ; in  particular  an  admir- 
ing reader  of  Utz  and  Gellert,  writers  whom  it  is  creditable 
for  one  in  her  situation  to  have  relished. 1 Her  kindness  and 
tenderness  of  heart  peculiarly  endeared  her  to  Friedrich.  Her 
husband  appears  to  have  been  a person  of  great  probity,  some- 
what rugged  of  temper,  but  sincerely  desirous  to  approve 
himself  a useful  member  of  society,  and  to  do  his  duty  con- 
scientiously to  all  men.  The  seeds  of  many  valuable  qualities 
had  been  sown  in  him  by  nature  ; and  though  his  early  life 
had  been  unfavourable  for  their  cultivation,  he  at  a late  period 
laboured,  not  without  success,  to  remedy  this  disadvantage. 
Such  branches  of  science  and  philosophy  as  lay  within  his 
reach,  he  studied  with  diligence,  whenever  his  professional  em- 
ployments left  him  leisure  ; on  a subject  connected  with  the 
latter  he. became  an  author.2  But  what  chiefly  distinguished 
him  was  the  practice  of  a sincere  piety,  which  seems  to*havc 
diffused  itself  over  all  his  feelings,  and  given  to  his  clear’  and 
honest  character  that  calm  elevation  which,  in  such  a case,  is  its 
natural  result.  As  his  religion  mingled  itself  with  every  mo 

1 She  was  of  humble  descent  and  little  education,  the  daughter  of  a 
baker  in  Marbacli. — For  much  new  light  on  Schiller’s  Parentage,  Boy- 
hood and  Youth,  see  Supplement  qf  187  2,  infril. 

■ His  book  is  entitled  Die  BrmimueM  im  Chvsscn  (the  Cultivation  of 
Trees  on  the  Brand  Scale) : it  came  to  a Second  edition  in  1800. 


SCHILLER' & YOVTIL 


11 


five  and  action  of  his  life,  the  wish  which  in  all  his  wanderings 
lay  nearest  his  heart,  the  wish  for  the  education  of  his  son, 
was  likely  to  be  deeply  tinctured  with  it.  There  is  yet  pre- 
served, in  his  handwriting,  a prayer  composed  in  advanced 
age,  wherein  he  mentions  how,  at  the  child’s  birth,  he  had  en- 
treated the  great  Father  of  all,  “to  supply  in  strength  of 
spirit  what  must  needs  be  wanting  in  outward  instruction.” 
The  gray-haired  man,  who  had  lived  to  see  the  maturity  of  his  * 
boy,  could  now  express  his  solemn  thankfulness,  that  “God 
had  heard  the  prayer  of  a mortal.” 

Friedrich  followed  the  movements  of  his  parents  for  some 
time  ; and  had  to  gather  the  elements  of  learning  from  various 
masters.  Perhaps  it  was  in  part  owing  to  this  circumstance, 
that  his  progress,  though  respectable,  or  more,  was  so  little 
commensurate  with  what  he  afterwards  became,  or  with  the 
capacities  of  which  even  his  earliest  years  gave  symptoms. 
Thoughtless  and  gay,  as  a boy  is  wont  to  be,  he  would  now 
and  then  dissipate  his  time  in  childish  sports,  forgetful  that 
the  stolen  charms  of  ball  and  leap-frog  must  be  dearly  bought 
by  reproaches  : but  occasionally  he  was  overtaken  with  feelings 
of  deeper  import,  and  used  to  express  the  agitations  of  his 
little  mind  in  words  and  actions,  which  were  first  rightly  inter- 
preted when  they  were  called  to  mind  long  afterwards.  His 
school- fellows  can  now  recollect  that  even  his  freaks  had  some- 
times a poetic  character  ; that  a certain  earnestness  of  temper, 
a frank  integrity,  an  appetite  for  things  grand  or  moving,  was 
discernible  across  all  the  caprices  of  his  boyhood.  Once,  it  is 
said,  during  a tremendous  thunderstorm,  his  father  missed  him 
in  the  young  group  within  doors ; none  of  the  sisters  could 
tell  what  w'as  become  of  Fritz,  and  the  old  man  grew  at  length 
so  anxious  that  he  was  forced  to  go  out  in  quest  of  hinn 
Fritz  was  scarcely  past  the  age  of  infancy,  and  knew  not  the 
dangers  of  a scene  so  awful.  His  father  found  him  at  last,  in 
a Solitary  place  of  the  neighbourhood,  perched  on  the  branch 
of  a tree,  gazing  at  the  tempestuous  face  of  the  sky,  and 
watching  the  flashes  as  in  succession  they  spread  their  lurid 
gleam  over  it.  To  the  reprimahds  of  his  parent,  the  whim- 
pering truant  pleaded  in  extenuation,  “ that  the  lightning  was 


12 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


very  beautiful,  aucl  that  he  wished  to  see  where  it  was  coming 
from  ! ” — Such  anecdotes,  we  have  long  known,  are  in  them- 
selves of  small  value  : the  present  one  has  the  additional 
defect  of  being  somewhat  dubious  in  respect  of  authenticity. 
We  have  ventured  to  give  it,  as  it  came  to  us,  notwithstand- 
ing.  The  picture  of  the  boy  Schiller,  contemplating  the 
thunder,  is  not  without  a certain  interest,  for  such  as  know 
the  man. 

Schiller’s  first  teacher  was  Moser,  pastor  and  schoolmaster 
in  the  village  of  Lorch,  where  the  parents  resided  from  the 
sixth  to  the  ninth  year  of  their  son.  This  person  deserves 
mention  for  the  influence  he  exerted  on  the  early  history  of 
his  pupil  : he  seems  to  have  given  his  name  to  the  Priest 
‘ Moser  ’ in  the  Robbers  ; his  spiritual  calling,  and  the  conver- 
sation of  his  son,  himself  afterwards  a preacher,  are  supposed 
to  have  suggested  to  Schiller  the  idea  of  consecrating  himself 
to  the  clerical  profession.  This  idea,  which  laid  hold  of  and 
cherished  some  predominant  though  vague  propensities  of  the 
boy’s  disposition,  suited  well  wTith  the  religious  sentiments  of 
his  parents,  and  was  soon  formed  into  a settled  purpose.  In 
the  public  school  at  Ludwigsburg,  whither  the  family  had  now 
removed,  his  studies  were  regulated  with  this  view  ; and  he 
underwent,  in  four  successive  years,  the  annual  examination 
before  the  Stuttgard  Commission,  to  which  young  men  des- 
tined for  the  Church  are  subjected  in  that  country.  Schiller’s 
temper  was  naturally  devout ; with  a delicacy  of  feeling  which 
tended  towards  bashfulness  and  timidity,  there  was  mingled 
in  him  a fervid  impetuosity,  which  was  ever  struggling  through 
its  concealment,  and  indicating  that  he  felt  deeply  and  strong- 
ly, as  well  as  delicately.  Such  a turn  of  mind  easily  took  the 
form  of  religion,  prescribed  to  it  by  early  example  and  early 
affections,  as  well  as  nature.  Schiller  looked  forward  to  the 
sacred  profession  with  alacrity  : it  was  the  serious  day-dream 
of  all  his  boyhood,  and  much  of  his  youth.  As  yet,  however, 
the  project  hovered  before  him  at  a great  distance,  and  the 
path  to  its  fulfilment  offered  him  but  little  entertainment. 
His  studies  did  not  seize  his  attention  firmly  ; he  followed 
them  from  a sense  of  duty,  not  of  pleasure.  Virgil  and  Horace 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


13 


lie  learned  to  construe  accurately ; but  is  said  to  liave  taken 
no  deep  interest  in  their  poetry.  The  tenderness  and  meek 
beauty  of  the  first,  the  humour  and  sagacity  and  capricious 
pathos  of  the  last,  the  matchless  elegance  of  both,  would  of 
course  escape  his  inexperienced  perception  ; while  the  matter 
of  their  writings  must  have  appeared  frigid  and  shallow  to  a 
mind  so  susceptible.  He  loved  rather  to  meditate  on  the 
splendour  of  the  Ludwigsburg  theatre,  which  had  inflamed 
his  imagination  when  he  first  saw  it  in  his  ninth  year,  and 
given  shape  and  materials  to  many  of  his  subsequent  reveries.1 

1 The  first  display  of  liis  poetic  gifts  occurred  also  in  his  ninth  year, 
hut  took  its  rise  in  a much  humbler  and  less  common  source  than  the 
inspiration  of  the  stage.  His  biographers  have  recorded  this  small  event 
with  a conscientious  accuracy,  second  only  to  that  of  Boswell  and 
Hawkins  in  regard  to  the  Lichfield  duck.  ‘ The  little  tale,’  says  one  of 
them,  1 is  worth  relating ; the  rather  that,  after  an  interval  of  more 
than  twenty  years,  Schiller  himself,  on  meeting  with  his  early  comrade 
(the  late  Dr.  Elwert  of  Kantstadt)  for  the  first  time  since  their  boyhood, 
reminded  him  of  the  adventure,  recounting  the  circumstances  with 
great  minuteness  and  glee.  It  is  as  follows : Once  in  1768,  Elwert  and 
he  had  to  repeat  their  catechism  together  on  a certain  day  publicly  in 
the  church.  Their  teacher,  an  ill-conditioned,  narrow-minded  pietist, 
had  previously  threatened  them  with  a thorough  flogging  if  they  missed 
even  a single  word.  To  make  the  matter  worse,  this  very  teacher 
chanced  to  be  the  person  whose  turn  it  was  to  catechise  on  the  appointed 
day.  Both  the  boys  began  their  answers  with  dismayed  hearts  and  fal- 
tering tongues ; yet  they  succeeded  in  accomplishing  the  task  ; and 
were  in  consequence  rewarded  by  the  mollified  pedagogue  with  two 
kreutzers  apiece.  Four  kreutzers  of  ready  cash  was  a sum  of  no  com- 
mon magnitude  ; how  it  should  be  disposed  of  formed  a serious  question 
for  the  parties  interested.  Schiller  moved  that  they  should  go  to 
Harteneck,  a hamlet  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  have  a dish  of  curds- 
and-cream  : his  partner  assented  ; but  alas ! in  Harteneck  no  particle 
of  curds  or  cream  was  to  be  had.  Schiller  then  made  offer  for  a quarter- 
cake  of  cheese  ; but  for  this  four  entire  kreutzers  were  demanded,  leav- 
ing nothing  whatever  in  reserve  for  bread  ! Twice  baffled,  the  little 
gastronomes,  unsatisfied  in  stomach,  wandered  on  to  Neckarweiliingen  ; 
where,  at  length,  though  not  till  after  much  inquiry,  they  did  obtain  a 
comfortable  mess  of  curds-and-cream,  served  up  in  a gay  platter,  and 
silver  spoons  to  eat  it  with.  For  all  this,  moreover,  they  were  charged 
but  three  kreutzers ; so  that  there  was  still  one  left  to  provide  them 
with  a bunch  of  St.  John  grapes.  Exhilarated  by  such  liberal  cheer, 


] 4 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Under  these  circumstances,  his  progress,  with  all  his  natural 
ability,  could  not  be  very  striking ; the  teachers  did  not  fail 
now  and  then  to  visit  him  with  their  severities ; yet  still  there 
was  a negligent  success  in  his  attempts,  which,  joined  to  his 
honest  and  vivid  temper,  made  men  augur  well  of  him.  The 
Stuttgard  Examinators  have  marked  him  in  their  records  with 
the  customary  formula  of  approval,  or,  at  worst,  of  toleration. 
They  usually  designate  him  as  ‘a  boy  of  good  hope,'  puer 
bonce  spei. 

This  good  hope  was  not,  however,  destined  to  be  realised 
in  the  way  they  expected  : accidents  occurred  which  changed 
the  direction  of  Schiller’s  exertions,  and  threatened  for  a time 
to  prevent  the  success  of  them  altogether.  The  Duke  of  "Wur- 
temberg  had  lately  founded  a Free  Seminary  for  certain 
branches  of  professional  education : it  was  first  set  up  at  Soli- 
tude, one  of  his  country  residences  ; and  had  now  been  trans- 
ferred to  Stuttgard,  where,  under  an  improved  form,  and  with 
the  name  of  Karls-schule,  we  believe  it  still  exists.  The  Duke 
proposed  to  give  the  sons  of  his  military  officers  a preferable 
claim  to  the  benefits  of  this  institution  ; and  having  formed  a 
good  opinion  both  of  Schiller  and  his  father,  he  invited  the 
former  to  profit  by  this  opportunity.  The  offer  occasioned 
great  embarrassment : the  young  man  and  his  parents  were 
alike  determined  in  favour  of  the  Church,  a project  with  which 
this  new  one  was  inconsistent.  Their  embarrassment  was  but 
increased,  when  the  Duke,  on  learnihg  the  nature  of  their 
scrupled,  desired  them  to  think  well  before  they  decided.  It 
was  out  of  fear,  and  with  reluctance  that  his  proposal  was  ac- 
cepted. Schiller  enrolled  himself  in  1773  ; and  turned,  with 
a heavy  heart,  from  freedom  and  cherished  hopes,  to  Greek, 
and  seclusion,  and  Law. 

Schiller  rose  into  a glow  of  inspiration:  having  left  the  village,  he 
mounted  with  his  comrade  to  the  adjacent  height,  which  overlooks  both 
Harteneck  and  Neckarweihingen ; and  there  in  a truly  poetic  effusion 
he  prondunced  his  malediction  on  the  creamless  region,  bestowing  with 
the  same  solemnity  his  blessing  on  the  one  which  had  afforded  him 
that  savoury  refreshment.’  Pnoh'i>-k  veil  ScTtillcrs  Lc&en  < Heidelberg, 
Idl?),  p.  11. 


-SCHILLER'S  TOUTIL 


15 


His  anticipations  proved  to  be  but  too  just : the  sis  years 
which  he  spent  in  this  establishment  were  the  most  harassing 
and  comfortless  of  his  life.  The  Stuttgard  system  of  educa- 
tion seems  to  have  been  formed  on  the  principle,  not  of  cher- 
ishing and  correcting  nature,  but  of  rooting  it  out,  and  sup- 
plying its  place  with  something  better.  The  process  of  teach- 
ing and  living  was  conducted  with  the  stiff  formality  of  mili- 
tary drilling  ; every  thing  went  on  by  statute  and  ordinance, 
there  was  no  scope  for  the  exercise  of  free-will,  no  allowance 
for  the  varieties  of  original  structure.  A scholar  might  pos- 
sess what  instincts  or  capacities  he  pleased  ; the  ‘regulations 
of  the  school 5 took  no  account  of  this ; he  must  tit  himself 
into  the  common  mould,  which,  like  the  old  Giant's  bed,  stood 
there,  appointed  by  superior  authority,  to  be  filled  alike  by 
the  great  and  the  little.  The  same  strict  and  narrow  course  of 
reading  and  composition  was  marked  out  for  each  beforehand, 
and  it  was  by  stealth  if  he  read  or  wrote  anything  beside. 
Their  domestic  economy  was  regulated  in  the  same  spirit  as 
their  preceptorial : it  consisted  of  the  same  sedulous  exclu- 
sion of  all  that  could  border  on  pleasure,  or  give  any  -exer- 
cise to  choice.  The  pupils  were  kept  apart  from  the  conver- 
sation or  sight  of  any  person  but  their  teachers ; none  ever 
got  beyond  the  precincts  of  despotism  to  snatch  even  a fear- 
ful joy ; their  very  amusements  proceeded  by  the  word  of 
command. 

How  grievous  all  this  must  have  been,  it  is  easy  to  con- 
ceive. To  Schiller  it  was  more  grievous  than  to  any  other. 
Of  an  ardent  and  impetuous  yet  delicate  nature,  whilst  his 
discontentment  devoured  lihu  Internally,  he  was  too  modest 
and  timid  to  give  it  the  relief  of  utterance  by  deeds  or  words. 
Loeked  up  within  himself,  he  suffered  deeply,  but  without 
complaining.  Some  of  bis  letters  written  during  this  period 
have  been  preserved  e -they  exhibit  tbe  ineffectual  struggles  of 
a fervid  and  busy  mincT^veiling  its  many  chagrins  under  a 
certain  dreary  patience,  which  only  shows  them  more  pain- 
fully. He  pored  over  liis  lexicons  and  grammar's,  and 
insipid  tasks,  with  an  artificial  composure  ; but  his  spirit 
pined  within  him  like  a captive’s,  when  he  looked  forth 


16 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


into  the  cheerful  world,  or  recollected  the  affection  of 
parents,  the  hopes  and  frolicsome  enjoyments  of  past  years. 
The  misery  he  endured  in  this  severe  and  lonely  mode 
of  existence  strengthened  or  produced  in  him  a liabit  of 
constraint  and  shyness,  which  clung  to  his  character  through 
life. 

The  study  of  Law,  for  which  he  had  never  felt  any  predilec- 
tion, naturally  grew  in  his  mind  to  be  the  representative  of 
all  these  evils,  and  his  distaste  for  it  went  on  increasing.  On 
this  point  he  made  no  secret  of  his  feelings.  One  of  the 
exercises,  yearly  prescribed  to  every  scholar,  was  a written 
delineation  of  his  own  character,  according  to  his  own  views 
of  it,  to  be  delivered  publicly  at  an  appointed  time  : Schiller, 
on  the  first  of  these  exhibitions,  ventured  to  state  his  per- 
suasion, that  he  was  not  made  to  be  a jurist,  but  called  rather 
by  his  inclinations  and  faculties  to  the  clerical  profession. 
This  statement,  of  course,  produced  no  effect  ; he  was  forced 
to  continue  the  accustomed  course,  and  his  dislike  for  Law 
kept  fast  approaching  to  absolute  disgust.  In  1775,  he  was 
fortunate  enough  to  get  it  relinquished,  though  at  the  expense 
of  adopting  another  employment,  for  which,  in  different  cir- 
cumstances, he  would  hardly  have  declared  himself.  The 
study  of  Medicine,  for  which  a new  institution  was  about  this 
time  added  to  the  Stuttgard  school,  had  no  attractions  for 
Schiller : he  accepted  it  only  as  a galling  servitude  in  ex- 
change for  one  more  galling.  His  mind  was  bent  on  higher 
objects  ; and  he  still  felt  all  his  present  vexations  aggravated 
by  the  thought,  that  his  fairest’  expectations  from  the  future 
had  been  sacrificed  to  worldly  convenience,  and  the  humblest 
necessities  of  life. 

Meanwhile  the  youth  was  waxing  into  manhood,  and  the 
fetters  of  discipline  lay  heavier  on  him,  as  his  powers  grew 
stronger,  and  his  eyes  became  open  to  the  stirring  and  varie- 
gated interests  of  the  world,  now  unfolding  itself  to  him 
under  new  and  more  glowing  colours.  As  yet  he  contem- 
plated the  scene  only  from  afar,  and  it  seemed  but  the  more 
gorgeous  on  that  account.  He  longed  to  mingle  in  its  busy 
current,  and  delighted  to  view  the  image  of  its  movements  in 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


17 


Iris  favourite  poets  and  historians.  Plutarch  and  Shakspeare  ; 1 2 
the  writings  of  Klopstock,  Lessing,  Garve,  Herder,  Gersten- 
berg,  Goethe,  aricl  a multitude  of  others,  which  marked  the 
dawning  literature  of  Germany,  he  had  studied  with  a secret 
avidity : they  gave  him  vague  ideas  of  men  and  life,  or 
awakened  in  him  splendid  visions  of  literary  glory.  Klop- 
stock’s  Messias,  combined  with  his  own  religious  tendencies, 
had  early  turned  him  to  sacred  poetry  : before  the  end  of  his 
fourteenth  year,  he  had  finished  what  he  called  an  ‘epic 
poem,’  entitled  Moses.  The  extraordinary  popularity  of 
Gerstenberg’s  Ugolino,  and  Goethe’s  Gotz  von  Berlichingen, 
next  directed  his  attention  to  the  drama  ; and  as  admiration 
in  a mind  like  his,  full  of  blind  activity  and  nameless  aspir- 
ings, naturally  issues  in  imitation,  he  plunged  with  equal 
ardour  into  this  new  subject,  and  produced  his  first  tragedy, 
Cosmo  von  MedicAs,  some  fragments  of  wdiich  he  retained  and 
inserted  in  his  Robbers.  A mass  of  minor  performances,  pre- 
served among  his  papers,  or  published  in  the  Magazines  of 
the  time,  serve  sufficiently  to  show  that  his  mind  had  already 
dimly  discovered  its  destination,  and  was  striving  with  a rest- 
less vehemence  to  reach  it,  in  spite  of  every  obstacle. 

Such  obstacles  were  in  his  case  neither  few  nor  small. 
Schiller  felt  the  mortifying  truth,  that  to  arrive  at  the  ideal 
world,  lie  must  first  gain  a footing  in  the  real  ; that  he  might 
entertain  high  thoughts  and  longings,  might  reverence  the 
beauties  of  nature  and  grandeur  of  mind,  but  was  born  to  toil 

1 The  feeling  produced  in  him  by  Shakspeare  he  described  long  after- 
wards : it  throws  light  on  the  general  state  of  his  temper  and  tastes. 
‘ When  I first,  at  a very  early  age,’  lie  says,  ‘ became  acquainted  with 
this  poet,  I felt  indignant  at  his  coldness,  his  hardness  of  heart,  which 
permitted  him  in  the  most  melting  pathos  to  utter  jests, — to  mar,  by  the 
introduction  of  a fool,  the  soul-searching  scenes  of  Hamlet,  Lear,  and 
other  pieces  ; which  now  kept  him  still  where  my  sensibilities  hastened 
forward,  now  drove  him  carelessly  onward  where  I would  so  gladly  have 
lingered.  * * He  was  the  object  of  my  reverence  and  zealous 

study  for  years  before  I could  love  himself.  I was  not  yet  capable  of 
comprehending  Nature  at  first-hand  : I had  but  learned  to  admire  her 
image,  reflected  in  the  understanding,  and  put  in  order  by  rules.’ 
Werke , Bd.  viii.  2,  p.  77. 

2 


18 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


for  liis  daily  bread.  Poetry  lie  loved  with  the  passionateness 
of  a first  affection  ; but  he  could  not  live  by  it ; he  honoured 
it  too  highly  to  wish  to  live  by  it.  His  prudence  told  him 
that  he  must  yield  to  stern  necessity,  must  ‘ forsake  the  balmy 
climate  of  Pindus  for  the  Greenland  of  a barren  and  dreary 
science  of  terms  ; 1 and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  obey.  His  pro- 
fessional studies  were  followed  with  a rigid  though  reluctant 
fidelity  ; it  was  only  in  leisure  gained  by  Superior  diligence 
that  he  could  yield  himself  to  more  favourite  pursuits. 
Genius^  was  to  serve  as  the  ornament  of  his  inferior  qualities, 
not  as  an  excuse  for  the  want  of  them. 

But  if,  when  such  sacrifices  were  required,  it  was  painful 
to  comply  with  the  dictates  of  his  own  reason,  it  was  still  more 
so  ter  endure  the  harsh  and  superfluous  restrictions  of  his 
teachers.  He  felt  it  hard  enough  to  be  driven  from  the  enchant- 
ments of  poetry  by  the'  dull  realities  of  duty  ; but  it  was  in- 
tolerable and  degrading  to  be  hemmed-in  still  farther  by  the 
caprices  of  severe  and  formal  pedagogues.  Schiller  brooded 
gloomily  over  the  constraints  and  hardships  of  his  situa- 
tion. Many  plans  he  formed  for  deliverance.  Sometimes  he 
would  escape  in  secret  to  catch  a glimpse  of  the  free  and  busy 
world  to  him  forbidden : sometimes  he  laid  schemes  for 
utterly  abandoning  a place  which  lie  abhorred,  and  trusting 
to  fortune  for  the  rest.  Often  the  sight  of  his  class-books 
and  school-apparatus  became  irksome  beyond  endurance  ; he 
would  feign  sickness,  that  he  might  be  left  in  his  own  cham- 
ber to  write  poetry  and  pursue  his  darling  studies  without 
hindrance.  Such  artifices  did  not  long  avail  him  ; the  masters 
noticed  the  regularity  of  his  sickness,  and  sent  him  tasks  to  be 
done  while  it  lasted.  Even  Schiller’s  patience  could  not 
brook  this  ; his  natural  timidity  gave  place  to  indignation ; 
he  threw  the  paper  of  exercises  at  the  feet  of  the  messenger, 
ancdsaicl  sternly  that  “ here  he  would  choose  his  own  studies.  " 

Under  such  corroding  and  continual  vexations  an  ordinary 
spirit  would  have  sunk  at  length,  would  have  gradually  given 
up  its  loftier  aspirations,  and  sought  refuge  in  vicious  indul- 
gence, or  at  best  have  sullenly  harnessed  itself  into  the  yoke, 
and  plodded  through  existence,  weary,  discontented,  and 


-SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


19 


broken,  ever  casting’  back  a hankering  look  Upon  the  dreams 
of  youth,  and  ever  without  power  to  realise  them.  But 
Schiller  wras  no  ordinary  character,  and  did  not  act  like  one. 
Beneath  a cold  and  simple  exterior,  dignified  with  no  artificial 
attractions,  and  marred  in  its  native  amiableness  by  the  in- 
cessant obstruction,  the  isolation  and  painful  destitutions 
under  which  he  lived,  there  was  concealed  a burning  energy 
of  soul,  which  no  obstruction  could  extinguish.  The  hard 
circumstances  of  his  fortune  had  prevented  the  natural 
development  of  his  mind  ; his  faculties  had  been  cramped 
and  misdirected  ; but  they  had  gathered  strength  by  opposi- 
tion and  the  habit  of  self-dapendence  which  it  encouraged. 
His  thoughts,  uuguided  by  a teacher,  had  sounded  into  the 
depths  of  his  own  nature  and  the  mysteries  of  his  own  fate  ; 
his  feelings  and  passions,  unshared  by  any  other  heart,  had 
been  driven  back  upon  his  own,  where,  like  the  volcanic  fire 
that  smoulders  and  fuses  in  secret,  they  accumulated  till  then’ 
force  grew  irresistible. 

Hitherto  Schiller  had  passed  for  an  unprofitable,  a discon- 
tented and  a disobedient  Boy  : but  the  time  was  now  come 
when  the  gyves  of  school-discipline  could  no  longer  cripple 
and  distort  the  giant  might  of  his  nature  : he  stood  forth  as  a 
Man,  and  wrenched  asunder  his  fetters  with  a force  that  wras 
felt  at  the  extremities  of  Europe.  The  publication  of  the 
Robbers  forms  an  era  not  only  in  Schiller’s  history,  but  in  the 
Literature  of  the  World  ; and  there  seems  no  doubt  that,  but 
for  so  mean  a cause  as  the  perverted  discipline  of  the  Stutt- 
gard  school,  we  had  never  seen  this  tragedy.  Schiller  com- 
menced it  in  his  nineteenth  year;  and  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  was  composed  are  to  be  traced  in  all  its  parts.  It  is 
the  production  of  a Strong  untutored  spirit,  consumed  by  an 
activity  for  which  there  is  no  outlet,  indignant  at  the  barriers 
which  restrain  it,  and  grappling  darkly  with  the  phantoms  to 
w’hich  its  own  energy  thus  painfully  imprisoned  gives  being. 
A rude  simplicity,  combined  with  a gloomy  and  overpowering 
force,  are  its  chief  characteristics  ; they  remind  us  of  the  de- 
fective cultivation,  as  well  as  of  the  fervid  and  harassed  feel- 
ings of  its  author.  Above  all,  the  latter  quality  is  visible  ; the 


20 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


tragic  interest  of  the  Robbers  is  deep  throughout,  so  deep  that 
frequently  it  borders  upon  horror.  A grim  inexpiable  Fate  is 
made  the  ruling  principle : it  envelops  and  overshadows  the 
whole  ; and  under  its  louring  influence,  the  fiercest  efforts  of 
human  will  appear  but  like  flashes  that  illuminate  the  *vild 
scene  with  a brief  and  terrible  splendour,  and  are  lost  forever 
in  the  darkness.  The  unsearchable  abysses  of  man’s  destiny 
are  laid  open  before  us,  black  and  profound  and  appalling,  as 
they  seem  to  the  young  mind  when  it  first  attempts  to  explore 
them  : the  obstacles  that  thwart  our  faculties  and  wishes,  the 
deceitfulness  of  hope,  the  nothingness  of  existence,  are  sketched 
in  the  sable  colours  so  natural  to  the  enthusiast  when  he  first 
ventures  upon  life,  and  compares  the  world  that  is  without 
him  to  the  anticipations  that  were  within. 

Karl  von  Moor  is  a character  such  as  young  poets  always 
delight  to  contemplate  or  delineate ; to  Schiller  the  analogy 
of  their  situations  must  have  peculiarly  recommended  him. 
Moor  is  animated  into  action  by  feelings  similar  to  those 
under  which  his  author  was  then  suffering  and  longing  to  act. 
Gifted  with  every  noble  quality  of  manhood  in  overflowing 
abundance,  Moor’s  first  expectations  of  life,  and  of  the  part  he 
was  to  play  in  it,  had  been  glorious  as  a poet's  dream.  But 
the  minor  dexterities  of  management  were  not  among  his  en- 
dowments ; in  his  eagerness  to  reach  the  goal,  he  had  forgot- 
ten that  the  course  is  a labyrinthic  maze,  beset  with  difficul- 
ties, of  which  some  may  be  surmounted,  some  can  only  be 
evaded,  many  can  be  neither.  Hurried  on  by  the  headlong 
impetuosity  of  his  temper,  he  entangles  himself  in  these  per- 
plexities ; and  thinks  to  penetrate  them,  not  by  skill  and  pa- 
tience, but  by  open  force.  He  is  baffled,  deceived,  and  still 
more  deeply  involved  ; but  inj  ury  and  disappointment  exas- 
perate rather  than  instruct  him.  He  had  expected  heroes, 
and  he  finds  mean  men  ; friends,  and  he  finds  smiling  traitors 
to  tempt  him  aside,  to  profit  by  his  aberrations,  and  lead  him 
onward  to  destruction  : he  had  dreamed  of  magnanimity  and 
every  generous  principle,  he  finds  that  prudence  is  the  only 
virtue  sure  of  its  reward.  Too  fiery  by  nature,  the  intensity 
of  his  sufferings  has  now  maddened  him  still  farther : he  is 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


21 


liimself  incapable  of  calm  reflection,  and  there  is  no  counsellor 
at  hand  to  assist  him  ; none,  whose  sympathy  might  assuage 
his  miseries,  whose  wisdom  might  teach  him  to  remedy  or  to 
endure  them.  He  is  stung  by  fury  into  action,  qnd  his  ac- 
tivity is  at  once  blind  and  tremendous.  Since  the  world  is 
not  the  abode  of  unmixed  integrity,  he  looks  upon  it  as  a den 
of  thieves  ; since  its  institutions  may  obstruct  the  advance- 
ment of  worth,  and  screen  delinquency  from  punishment,  he 
regards  the  social  union  as  a pestilent  nuisance,  the  mischiefs 
of  which  it  is  fitting  that  he  in  his  degree  should  do  his  best 
to  repair,  by  means  however  violent.  Revenge  is  the  main- 
spring of  his  conduct ; but  he*  ennobles  it  in  his  own  eyes,  by 
giving  it  the  colour  of  a disinterested  concern  for  the  main- 
tenance of  justice, — the  abasement  of  vice  from  its  high  places, 
and  the  exaltation  of  suffering  virtue.  Single  against  the 
universe,  to  appeal  to  the  primary  law  of  the  stronger,  to 
‘grasp  the  scales  of  Providence  in  a mortal’s  hand,’  is  frantic 
and  wicked  ; but  Moor  has  a force  of  soul  which  makes  it 
likewise  awful.  The  interest  lies  in  the  conflict  of  this  gigan- 
tic soul  against  the  fearful  odds  which  at  length  overwhelm 
it,  and  hurry  it  down  to  the  darkest  depths  of  ruin. 

The  original  conception  of  such  a work  as  this  betrays  the 
inexperience  no  less  than  the  vigour  of  youth : its  execution 
gives  a similar  testimony.  The  characters  of  the  piece,  though 
traced  in  glowing  colours,  are  outlines  more  than  pictures  : the 
few  features  we  discover  in  them  are  drawn  with  elaborate 
minuteness  ; but  the  rest  are  wanting.  Everything  indicates 
the  condition  of  a keen  and  powerful  intellect,  which  had 
studied  men  in  books  only  ; had,  by  self-examination  and  the 
perusal  of  history,  detected'  and  strongly  seized  some  of  the 
leading  peculiarities  of  human  nature  ; but  was  yet  ignorant 
of  all  the  minute  and  more  complex  principles  which  regulate 
men’s  conduct  in  actual  life,  and  which  only  a knowledge  of 
living  men  can  unfold.  If  the  hero  of  the  play  forms  some- 
thing like  an  exception  to  this  remark,  he  is  the  sole  excep- 
tion, and  for  reasons  alluded  to  above  : his  character  resembles 
the  author’s  own.  Even  with  Karl,  the  success  is  incomplete : 
with  the  other  personages  it  is  far  more  so.  Franz  von  Moor, 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SC1ULLER. 


2% 

the  villain  of  the  Piece,  is  an  amplified  copy  of  Iago  and  ilich- 
ard  ; but  the  copy  is  distorted  as  well  as  amplified.  There  is 
no  air  of  reality  in  Franz  : he  is  a villain  of  theory,  who 
studies  to  accomplish  his  object  by  the  most  diabolical  expe- 
dients, and  soothes  his  conscience  by  arguing  with  the  jfriest 
in  favour  of  atheism  and  materialism  ; not  the  genuine  villain 
of  Shakspeareand  Nature,  who  employs  his  reasoning  powers  in 
creating  new  schemes  and  devising' new  means,  and  conquers 
remorse  by  avoiding  it, — by  fixing  his  hopes  and  fears  on  the 
more  pressing  emergencies  of  worldly  business.  So  reflective 
a miscreant  as  Franz  could  not  exist : his  calculations  would 
lead  him  to  honesty,  if  merely'  because  it  was  the  best  policy. 

Amelia,  the  only  female  in  the  piece,  is  a beautiful  creation  ; 
but  as  imaginary  as  her  persecutor  Franz.  Still  and  exalted 
in  her  warm  enthusiasm,  devoted  in  her  love  to  Moor,  she 
moves  before  us  as  the  inhabitant  of  a higher  and  simpler 
world  than  ours.  “ He  sails  on  troubled  seas,”  she  exclaims, 
with  a confusion  of  metaphors,  which  it  is  easy  to  pardon, 
“ he  sails  on  troubled  seas,  Amelia’s  love  sails  with  him  ; he 
wanders  in  pathless  deserts,  Amelia’s  love  makes  the  burning 
sand  grow  green  beneath  him,  and  the  stunted  shrubs  to 
blossom ; the  south  scorches  his  bare  head,  liis  feet  are 
pinched  by  the  northern  snow,  stormy  hail  beats  round  his 
temples — Amelia’s  love  rocks  him  to  sleep  in  the  storm.  Seas, 
and  lulls,  and  horizons,  are  between  us  ; but  souls  escape 
from  their  clay  prisons,  and  meet  in  the  paradise  of  love ! ” 
She  is  a fair  vision,  the  beau  ideal  of  a poet’s  first  mistress ; 
but  has  few  mortal  lineaments. 

Similar  defects  are  visible  in  almost  all  the  other  characters. 
Moor,  the  father,  is  a weak  and  fond  old  man,  who  could  have 
arrived  at  gray  hairs  in  such  a state  of  ignorance  nowhere  but 
in  a work  of  fiction.  The  inferior  banditti  are  painted  with 
greater  vigour,  yet  still  in  rugged  and  ill-shapen  forms  ; their 
individuality  is  kept  up  by  an  extravagant  exaggeration  of 
their  several  peculiarities.  Schiller  himself  pronounced  a 
severe  but  not  unfounded  censure,  when  he  said  of  this  work, 
in  a maturer  age,  that  his  chief  fault  was  in  ‘ presuming  to 
delineate  men  two  years  before  he  had  met  one.’ 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


23 


His  skill  in  the  art  of  composition  surpassed  iris  knowledge 
of  tlie  world ; but  that  too  was  far  from  perfection.  Schiller’s 
style  in  the  Bobbers  is  partly  of  a kind  with  the  incidents  and 
feelings  which  it  represents ; strong  and  astonishing,  and 
sometimes  wildly  grand  ; but  likewise  inartificial,  coarse,  and 
grotesque.  His  sentences,  in  their  rude  emphasis,  come  down 
like  the  club  of  Hercules  ; the  stroke  is  often  of  a crashing 
force,  but  its  sweep  is  irregular  and  awkward.  When  Moor 
is  involved  in  the  deepest  intricacies  of  the  old  question, 
necessity  and  free  will,  aud  has  convinced  himself  that  he  is 
but  an  engine  in  the  hands  of  some  dark  and  irresistible  power, 
he  cries  out : “ Why  has  my  Perillus  made  of  me  a brazen 
bull  to  roast  men  in  my  glowing  belly  ? ” The  stage-direc- 
tion says,  * shaken  with  horror : 5 no  wonder  that  he  shook  ! 

Schiller  has  admitted  these  faults,  and  explained  their 
origin,  in  strong  and  sincere  language,  in  a passage  of  which 
we  have  already  quoted  the  conclusion.  * A singular  miscal- 
culation of  nature,’  he  says,  * had  combined  my  poetical  ten- 
dencies with  the  place  of  my  birth.  Any  disposition  to  poetry 
did  violence  to  the  laws  of  the  institution  where  I was  edu- 
cated, and  contradicted  the  plan  of  its  founder.  For  eight 
year's  my  enthusiasm  straggled  with  military  discipline  ; but 
the  passion  for  poetry  is  vehement  and  fiery  as  a first  love. 
What  discipline  was  meant  to  extinguish,  it  blew  into  a flame. 
To  escape  from  arrangements  that  tortured  me,  my  heart 
sought  refuge  in  the  world  of  ideas,  when  as  yet  I was  unac- 
quainted with  the  world  of  realities,  from  which  iron  bars  ex- 
cluded me.  I was  unacquainted  with  men  ; for  the  four 
hundred  that  lived  with  me  were  but  repetitions  of  the  same 
creature,  true  casts  of  one  single  mould,  and  of  that  very 
mould  which  plastic  nature  solemnly  disclaimed.  * * * 

Thus  circumstanced,  a stranger  to  human  characters  and 
human  fortunes,  to  hit  the  medium  line  between  angels  and 
devils  was  an  enterprise  in  which  I necessarily  failed.  In 
attempting  it  my  pencil  necessarily  brought  out  a monster, 
for  which  by  good  fortune  the  world  had  no  original,  and 
which  I would  not  wish  to  be  immortal,  except  to  perpetuate 
an  example  of  the  offspring  which  Genius  iu  its  unnatural 


24 


TUB  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


union  with  Thraldom  may  give  to  the  world.  I allude  to  the 
Robbers. 1 

Yet  with  all  these  excrescences  and  defects,  the  unbounded 
popularity  of  the  Robbers  is  not  difficult  to  account  for.  To 
every  reader,  the  excitement  of  emotion  must  be  a chief  con- 
sideration ; to  the  mass  of  readers  it  is  the  sole  one  : and  the 
grand  secret  of  moving  others  is,  that  the  poet  be  himself 
moved.  We  have  seen  how  well  Schiller’s  temper  and  circum- 
stances qualified  him  to  fulfil  this  condition : treatment,  not  of 
his  choosing,  had  raised  his  own  mind  into  something  like  a 
Pythian  frenzy  ; and  his  genius,  untrained  as  it  was,  sufficed 
to  communicate  abundance  of  the  feeling  to  others.  Perhaps 
more  than  abundance  : to  judge  from  our  individual  impres- 
sion, the  perusal  of  the  Robbers  produces  an  effect  powerful 
even  to  pain  ; we  are  absolutely  wounded  by  the  catastrophe  ; 
our  minds  are  darkened  and  distressed,  as  if  we  had  witnessed 
the  execution  of  a criminal.  It  is  in  vain  that  we  rebel  against 
the  inconsistencies  and  crudities  of  the  work : its  faults  are 
redeemed  by  the  living  energy  that  pervades  it.  We  may  ex- 
claim against  the  blind  madness  of  the  hero  ; but  there  is  a 
towering  grandeur  about  him,  a whirlwind  force  of  passion 
and  of  will,  which  catches  our  hearts,  and  puts  the  scruples 
of  criticism  to  silence.  The  most  delirious  of  enteiprises  is 
that  of  Moor,  but  the  vastness  of  his  mind  renders  even  that 
interesting.  We  see  him  leagued  with  desperadoes  directing 
their  savage  strength  to  actions  more  and  more  audacious ; 
he  is  in  arms  against  the  conventions  of  men  and  the  ever- 
lasting laws  of  Fate  : yet  we  follow  him  with  anxiety  through 
the  forests  and  desert  places,  where  he  wanders,  encompassed 
with  peril,  inspired  with  lofty  daring,  and  torn  by  unceasing 
remorse  ; and  we  wait  with  awre  for  the  doom  which  he  has 
merited  and  cannot  avoid.  Nor  amid  all  his  frightful  aberra- 
tions do  we  ever  cease  to  love  him  : he  is  an  ‘ archangel 
though  in  ruins  and  the  strong  agony  with  which  he  feels 
the  present,  the  certainty  of  that  stern  future  which  awaits 
him,  which  his  own  eye  never  loses  sight  of,  makes  us  lenient 
to  his  crimes.  When  he  pours  forth  his  wild  recollections, 

1 Deutsches  Museum  ».  Jahr  1784,  cited  by  Doeriug. 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


25 


or  still  ■wilder  forebodings,  there  is  a terrible  vehemence  in 
his  expressions,  which  overpowers  us,  in  spite  both  of  his  and 
their  extravagance.  The  scene  on  the  hills  beside  the  Dan- 
ube, where  he  looks  at  the  setting  sun,  and  thinks  of  old 
hopes,  and  times  ‘ when  he  could  not  sleep  if  his  evening- 
prayer  had  been  forgotten,’  is  one,  with  all  its  improprieties, 
that  ever  clings  to  the  memory.  “ See,”  he  passionately  con- 
tinues, “ all  things  are  gone  forth  to  bask  in  the  peaceful 
beam  of  the  spring  : why  must  I alone  inhale  the  torments  of 
hell  out  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ? That  all  should  be  so  happy, 
all  so  married  together  by  the  spirit  of  peace  ! The  whole 
world  one  family,  its  Father  above  ; that  Father  not  mine  ! 
I alone  the  castaway,  I alone  struck  out  from  the  company  of 
the  just ; not  for  me  the  sweet  name  of  child,  never  for  me 
the  languishing  look  of  one  whom  I love  ; never,  never,  the 
embracing  of  a bosom  friend  ! Encircled  with  murderers  ; 
serpents  hissing  around  me  ; riveted  to  vice  with  iron  bonds ; 
leaning  on  the  bending  reed  of  vice  over  the  gulf  of  per- 
dition ; amid  the  flowers  of  the  glad  world,  a howling  Abad- 
don ! Oh,  that  I might  return  into  my  mother’s  womb  ; — 
that  I might  be  born  a beggar ! I would  never  more — O 
Heaven,  that  I could  be  as  one  of  these  day-labourers  ! Oh, 
I would  toil  till  the  blood  ran  down  from  my  temples,  to  buy 
myself  the  pleasure  of  one  noontide  sleep,  the  blessing  of  a 
single  tear.  There  was  a time  too,  when  I could  weep — O ye 
days  of  peace,  thou  castle  of  my  father,  ye  green  lovely  val- 
leys ! — O all  ye  Elysian  scenes  of  my  childhood  ! will  ye  never 
come  again,  never  with  your  balmy  sighing  cool  my  burning- 
bosom  ? Mourn  with  me,  Nature  ! They  will  never  come 
again,  never  cool  my  burning  bosom  with  their  balmy  sigh- 
ing. They  are  gone  ! gone  ! and  may  not  return  ! ” 

No  less  strange  is  the  soliloquy  where  Moor,  with  the  in- 
strument of  self-destruction  in  his  hands,  the  ‘ dread  key  that 
is  to  shut  behind  him  the  prison  of  life,  and  to  unbolt  before 
him  the  dwelling  of  eternal  night,’ — meditates  on  the  gloomy 
enigmas  of  his  future  destiny.  Soliloquies  on  this  subject  are 
numerous, — from  the  time  of  Hamlet,  of  Cato,  and  down- 
wards. Perhaps  the  worst  of  them  has  more  ingenuity,  per- 


2G 


THE  LIFE  OF  FR1EDM0H  SCHILLER. 


Laps  the  best  of  them  has  less  awfulness  than  the  present. 
St.  Dominick  himself  might  shudder  at  such  a question,  with 
such  an  answer  as  this:  “What  if  thou  shouldst  send  me 
companionless  to  some  burnt  and  blasted  circle  of  the  uni- 
verse ; which  thou  hast  banished  from  thy  sight  ; where  the 
lone  darkness  and  the  motionless  desert  were  my  prospects — 
forever?  I would  people  the  silent  wilderness  with  my  fanta- 
sies ; I should  have  Eternity  for  leisure  to  examine  the  per- 
plexed image  of  the  universal  woe.” 

Strength,  wild  impassioned  strength,  is  the  distinguishing 
quality  of  Moor.  All  his  history  shows  it  ; and  his  death  is  of 
a piece  with  the  fierce  splendour  of  his  life.  Having  finished 
the  bloody  work  of  crime,  and  magnanimity,  and  horror,  he 
thinks  that,  for  himself,  suicide  would  be  too  easy  an  exit. 
He  has  noticed  a poor  man  toiling  by  the  wayside,  for  eleven 
children  ; a great  reward  has  been  promised  for  the  head  of 
the  Robber  ; the  gold  will  nourish  that  poor  drudge  and  his 
boys,  and  Moor  goes  forth  to  give  it  them.  We  part  with 
him  in  pity  and  sorrow  ; looking  less  at  his  misdeeds  than  at 
their  frightful  expiation. 

The  subordinate  personages,  though  diminished  in  extent 
and  varied  in  their  forms,  are  of  a similar  quality  with  the 
hero  ; a strange  mixture  of  extravagance  and  true  energy.  In 
perusing  the  work  which  represents  their  characters  and  fates, 
we  are  alternately  shocked  and  inspired ; there  is  a perpetual 
conflict  between  our  understanding  and  our  feelings.  Yet  the 
latter  on  the  whole  come  off  victorious.  The  Bobbers  is  a 
tragedy  that  will  long  find  readers  to  astonish,  and,  with  all 
its  faults,  to  move.  It  stands,  in  our  imagination,  like  some 
ancient  rugged  pile  of  a barbarous  age  ; irregular,  fantastic, 
useless  ; but  grand  in  its  height  and  massiveness  and  black 
frowning  strength.  It  will  long  remain  a singular  monument 
of  the  early  genius  and  early  fortune  of  its  author. 

The  publication  of  such  a work  as  this  naturally  produced 
an  extraordinary  feeling  in  the  literary  world.  Translations 
of  the  Robbers  soon  appeared  in  almost  all  the  languages  of 
Europe,  and  were  read  in  all  of  them  with  a deep  interest, 
compounded  of  admiration  and  aversion,  according  to  the  rel- 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


27 


ative  proportions  of  sensibility  and  judgment  in  tlie  various 
minds  which  contemplated  the  subject.  In  Germany,  the  en- 
thusiasm which  the  Robbers  excited  was  extreme.  The  young 
author  had  burst  upon  the  world  like  a meteor  ; and  surprise, 
for  a time,  suspended  the  power  of  cool  and  rational  criticism. 
In  the  ferment  produced  by  the  universal  discussion  of  this 
single  topic,  the  poet  was  magnified  above  his  natural  dimen- 
sions, great  as  they  were  : and  though  the  general  sentence 
was  loudly  in  his  favour,  yet  he  found  detractors  as  well  as 
praisers,  and  both  equally  beyond  the  limits  of  moderation. 

One  charge  brought  against  him  must  have  damped  the  joy 
of  literary  glory,  and  stung  Schiller’s  pure  and  virtuous  mind 
more  deeply  than  any  other.  He  was  accused  of  having  in- 
j ured  the  cause  of  morality  by  his  work  ; of  having  set  up  to 
the  impetuous  and  fiery  temperament  of  youth  a model  of  imi- 
tation which  the  young  were  too  likely  to  pursue  with  eager- 
ness, and  which  could  only  lead  them  from  the  safe  and  beaten 
tracks  of  duty  into  error  and  destruction.  It  has  even  been 
stated,  and  often  been  repeated  since,  that  a practical  exem- 
plification of  this  doctrine  occurred,  about  this  time,  in  Ger- 
many. A young  nobleman,  it  was  said,  of  the  fairest  gifts  and 
prospects,  had  cast  away  all  these  advantages  ; betaken  himself 
to  the  forests,  and,  copying  Moor,  had  begun  a course  of  active 
operations, — which,  also  copying  Moor,  but  less  willingly,  he 
had  ended  by  a shameful  death. 

It  can  now  be  hardly  necessary  to  contradict  these  theo- 
ries ; or  to  show  that  none  but  a candidate  for  Bedlam  as  well 
as  Tyburn  could  be  seduced  from  the  substantial  comforts  of 
existence,  to  seek  destruction  and  disgrace,  for  the  sake  of 
such  imaginary  grandeur.  The  German  nobleman  of  the  fair- 
est gifts  and  prospects  turns  out,  on  investigation,  to  have 
been  a German  blackguard,  whom  debauchery  and  riotous  ex- 
travagance had  reduced  to  want ; who  took  to  the  highway, 
when  he  could  take  to  nothing  else, — not  allured  by  an  ebul- 
lient enthusiasm,  or  any  heroical  and  misdirected  appetite  for 
sublime  actions,  but  driven  by  the  more  palpable  stimulus  of 
importunate  duns,  an  empty  purse,  and  five  craving  senses. 
Perhaps  in  his  later  days,  this  philosopher  may  have  referred 


28  THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 

to  Schiller’s  tragedy,  as  the  source  from  which  he  drew  his 
theory  of  life  : but  if  so,  we  believe  he  was  mistaken.  For 
characters  like  him,  the  great  attraction  was  the  charms  of 
revelry,  and  the  great  restraint,  the  gallows, — before  the  period 
of  Karl  von  Moor,  just  as  they  have  been  since,  and  'will  be 
to  the  end  of  time.  Among  motives  like  these,  the  influence 
of  even  the  most'  malignant  book  could  scarcely  be  discern- 
ible, and  would  be  little  detrimental,  if  it  were. 

Nothing,  at  any  rate,  could  be  farther  from  Schiller’s  inten- 
tion than  such  a consummation.  In  his  preface,  he  speaks  of 
the  moral  effects  of  the  Robbers  in  terms  which  do  honour  to 
his  heart,  while  they  show  the  inexperience  of  his  head.  Rid- 
icule,  he  signifies,  has  long  been  tried  against  the  wickedness 
of  the  times,  whole  cargoes  of  hellebore  have  been  expended, 
— in  vain  ; and  now,  he  thinks,  recourse  must  be  had  to  more 
pungent  medicines.  We  may  smile  at  the  simplicity  of  this 
idea  ; and  safely  conclude  that,  like  other  specifics,  the  present 
one  would  fail  to  produce  a perceptible  effect  : but  Schiller’s 
vindication  rests  on  higher  grounds  than  these.  His  work  has 
on  the  whole  furnished  nourishment  to  the  more  exalted  powers 
of  our  nature  ; the  sentiments  and  images  which  he  has  shaped 
and  uttered,  tend,  in  spite  of  their  alloy,  to  elevate  the  soul  to 
a nobler  pitch  : and  this  is  a sufficient  defence.  As  to  the  dan- 
ger of  misapplying  the  inspiration  he  communicates,  of  for- 
getting the  dictates  of  prudence  in  our  zeal  for  the  dictates 
of  poetry,  we  have  no  great  cause  to  fear  it.  Hitherto,  at 
least,  there  has  always  been  enough  of  dull  reality,  on  every 
side  of  us,  to  abate  such  fervours  in  good  time,  and  bring  us 
back  to  the  most  sober  level  of  prose,  if  not  to  sink  us  below 
it.  We  should  thank  the  poet  who  performs  such  a service  ; 
and  forbear  to  inquire  too  rigidly  whether  there  is  any  * moral  ’ 
in  his  piece  or  not.  The  writer  of  a work,  which  interests 
and  excites  the  spiritual  feelings  of  men,  has  as  little  need  to 
justify  himself  by  showing  how  it  exemplifies  some  wise  saw 
or  modern  instance,  as  the  doer  of  a generous  action  has  to 
demonstrate  its  merit,  by  deducing  it  from  the  system  of 
Shaftesbury,  or  Smith,  or  Paley,  or  whichever  happens  to  be 
the  favourite  system  for  the  age  and  place.  The  instructiveness 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


29 


of  the  one,  and  the  virtue  of  the  other,  exist  independently  of 
all  systems  or  saws,  and  in  spite  of  all. 

But  the  tragedy  of  the  Robbers  produced  some  inconveniences 
of  a kind  much  more  sensible  than  these  its  theoretical  mis- 
chiefs. We  have  called  it  the  signal  of  Schiller’s  deliverance 
from  school  tyranny  and  military  constraint ; but  its  operation 
in  this  respect  was  not  immediate  ; at  first  it  seemed  to  in- 
volve him  more  deeply  and  dangerously  than  before.  He  had 
finished  the  original  sketch  of  it  in  1778  ; but  for  fear  of 
offence,  he  kept  it  secret  till  his  medical  studies  were  com- 
pleted.1 These,  in  the  mean  time,  he  had  pursued  with  suf- 
ficient assiduity  to  merit  the  usual  honours  ; 2 in  1780,  he  had, 
in  consequence,  obtained  the  post  of  surgeon  to  the  regiment 
Auge,  in  the  Wlirtemberg  army.  This  advancement  enabled 
him  to  complete  his  project,  to  print  the  Robbers  at  his  own 
expense,  not  being  able  to  find  any  bookseller  that  would  un- 
dertake it.  The  nature  of  the  work,  and  the  universal  interest 
it  awakened,  drew  attention  to  the  private  circumstances  of 
the  author,  whom  the  Robbers,  as  well  as  other  pieces  of  his 
writing,  that  had  found  their  way  into  the  periodical  publica- 
tions of  the  time,  sufficiently  showed  to  be  no  common  man. 

1 On  tliis  subject  Doering  gives  an  anecdote,  which  may  perhaps  be 
worth  translating.  ‘One  of  Schiller's  teachers  surprised  him  on  one  occa- 
sion reciting  a scene  from  the  Robbers , before  some  of  his  intimate  com- 
panions. At  the  words,  which  Franz  von  Moor  addresses  to  Moser  : Ha, 
what!  thou  knowest  none  greater?  Think  again  ! Death,  heaven,  eter- 
nity, damnation , hovers  in  the  sound  of  thy  voice  ! Not  one  greater  ? — the 
door  opened,  and  the  master  saw  Schiller  stamping  in  desperation  up 
and  down  the  room.  ‘’For  shame,”  said  he,  “for  shame  to  get  into 
such  a passion,  and  curse  so  ! ” The  other  scholars  tittered  covertly  at 
the  worthy  inspector  ; and  Schiller  called  after  him  with  a hitter  smile, 
“ A noodle  ” ( ein  confisdrter  Kerl)!' 

2 His  Latin  essay  on  the  Philosophy  of  Physiology  was  written  in  1778, 
and  never  printed.  His  concluding  thesis  was  published  according  to 
custom  : the  subject  is  arduous  enough,  “ the  connection  between  the 
animal  and  spiritual  nature  of  man,” — which  Dr.  Cabanis  has  since 
treated  in  so  offensive  a fashion.  Schiller’s  tract  we  have  never  seen. 
Doering  says  it  was  long  ‘ out  of  print,’  till  Nasse  reproduced  it  ill  his 
Medical  Journal  ^Leipzig,  1820) : he  is  silent  respecting  its  merits. 


30 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Many  grave  persons  were  offended  at  the  vehement  sentiments 
expressed  in  the  Robbers ; and  the  unquestioned  ability  with 
which  these  extravagances  were  expressed,  but  made  the  mat- 
ter worse.  To  Schiller’s  superiors,  above  all,  such  tilings 
were  inconceivable  ; he  might  perhaps  be  a very  great  genius, 
but  was  certainly  a dangerous  servant  for  his  Highness 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg.  Officious  people  mingled 
themselves  in  the  affair : nay,  the  graziers  of  the  Alps  were 
brought  to  bear  upon  it.  The  Grisons  magistrates,  it  ap- 
peared, had  seen  the  book  : and  were  mortally  huffed  at  being 
there  spoken  of,  according  to  a Swabian  adage,  as  common 
■highwaymen.1  They  complained  in  the  Hamburg  Corre- 
spondent ; and  a sort  of  Jackal,  at  Ludwigsburg,  one  "Walter, 
whose  name  deserves  to  be  thus  kept  in  mind,  volunteered  to 
plead  their  cause  before  the  Grand  Duke. 

Informed  of  all  these  circumstances,  the  Grand  Duke  ex- 
pressed his  disapprobation  of  Schiller’s  poetical  labours  in  the 
most  unequivocal  terms.  Schiller  was  at  length  summoned 
to  appear  before  him  ; and  it  then  turned  out,  that  his  High- 
ness was  not  only  dissatisfied  with  the  moral  or  political  errors 
of  the  work,  but  scandalised  moreover  at  its  want  of  literary 
merit.  In  this  latter  respect,  he  was  kind  enough  to  proffer 
his  own  services.  But  Schiller  seems  to  have  received  the 
proposal  with  no  sufficient  gratitude  ; and  the  interview  passed 
without  advantage  to  either  party.  It  terminated  in  the 
Duke’s  commanding  Schiller  to  abide  by  medical  subjects  : or 
at  least  to  beware  of  writing  any  more  poetry,  without  sub- 
mitting it  to  his  inspection. 

We  need  not  comment  on  this  portion  of  the  Grand  Duke’s 

1 The  obnoxious  passage  lias  been  carefully  expunged  from  subsequent 
editions.  ■ It  was  in  the  third  scene  of  the  second  act ; Spiegelberg  dis- 
coursing with  Razmann,  observes,  “ An  honest  man  you  may  form  of 
Windlestraws ; but  to  make  a rascal  you  must  have  grist : besides,  there 
is  a national  genius  in  it,  a certain  rascal-climate,  so  to  speak.”  In  the 
first  edition,  there  was  added : ‘ ' Go  to  the  Grisons,  for  instance : that  is  what 
I call  the  thief ' s Athens.”  The  patriot  who  stood  forth  on  This  occasion 
for  the  honour  of  the  Grisons.  to  deny  this  weighty  charge,  and  de- 
nounce the  crime  of  making  it,  was  not  Dogberry  or  Verges,  but  ‘ one 
of  the  noble  family  of  Salis.’ 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


31 


history  : his  treatment  of  Schiller  has  already  been  sufficiently 
avenged.  By  the  great  body  of  mankind,  his  name  will  be  rec- 
ollected, chiefly,  if  at  all,  for  the  sake  of  the  unfriended  youth 
whom  he  now  schooled  so  sharply,  and  afterwards  afflicted  so 
cruelly  : it  will  be  recollected  also,  with  the  angry  triumph 
which  we  feel  against  a shallow  and  despotic  ‘noble  of  con- 
vention,’ who  strains  himself  to  oppress  ‘ one  of  nature’s  no- 
bility,’ submitted  by  blind  chance  to  his  dominion,  and — finds 
that  he  cannot ! Adi  this  is  far  more  than  the  Prince  of  Wiir- 
temberg  deserves.  Of  limited  faculties,  and  educated  in  the 
French  principles  of  taste,  then  common  to  persons  of  his 
rank  in  Germany,  he  had  perused  the  Robbers  with  unfeigned 
disgust ; he  could  see  in  the  author  only  a misguided  enthu- 
siast, with  talents  barely  enough  to  make  him  dangerous. 
And  though  he  never  fully  or  formally  retracted  this  injustice, 
he  did  not  follow  it  up  ; when  Schiller  became  known  to  the 
world  at  large,  the  Duke  ceased  to  persecute  him.  The  father 
he  still  kept  in  his  service,  and  nowise  molested. 

In  the  mean  time,  however,  various  modifications  awaited 
Schiller.  It  was  in  Ar*ain  that  he  discharged  the  humble  duties 
of  his  station  with  the  most  strict  fidelity,  and  even,  it  is  said, 
with  superior  skill : he  was  a suspected  person,  and  his  most 
innocent  actions  were  misconstrued,  his  slightest  faults  were 
visited  with  the  full  measure  of  official  severity.  His  busy 
imagination  aggravated  the  evil.  He  had  seen  poor  Seliubart ' 
wearing  out  his  tedious  eight  years  of  durance  in  the  fortress 
of  Asperg,  because  he  had  been  ‘ a rock  of  offence  to  the  pow- 
ers that  were.’  The  fate  of  this  unfortunate  author  appeared 
to  Schiller  a type  of  his  own.  His  free  spirit  shrank  at  the 
prospect  of  wasting  its  strength  in  strife  against  the  pitiful 
constraints,  the  minute  and  endless  persecutions  of  men  who 
knew  him  not,  yet  had  his  fortune  in  their  hands  ; the  idea  of 
dungeons  and  jailors  haunted  and  tortured  his  mind ; and  the 
means  of  escaping  them,  the  renunciation  of  poetry,  the  source 
of  all  his  joy,  if  likewise  of  many  woes,  the  radiant  guiding- 
star  of  his  turbid  and  obscure  existence,  seemed  a sentence  of 
death  to  all  that  was  dignified,  and  delightful,  and  worth  re- 
1 See  Appendix,  No.  1. 


32 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


taming,  in  bis  character.  Totally  ignorant  of  what  is  called 
the  world  ; conscious  too  of  the  might  that  slumbered  in  his 
soul,  and  proud  of  it,  as  kings  are  of  their  sceptres  ; impetu- 
ous when  roused,  and  spurning  unjust  restraint;  yet  waver- 
ing and  timid  from  the  delicacy  of  his  nature,  and  still  more 
restricted  in  the  freedom  of  his  movements  by  the  circum- 
stances of  his  father,  whose  all  depended  on  the  pleasure  of 
the  court,  Schiller  felt  himself  embarrassed,  and  agitated,  and 
tormented  in  no  common  degree.  Urged  this  way  and  that 
by  the  most  powerful  and  conflicting  impulses  ; driven  to  de- 
spair by  the  paltry  shackles  that  chained  him,  yet  forbidden 
by  the  most  sacred  considerations  to  break  them,  he  knew  not 
on  what  he  should  resolve  ; he  reckoned  himself  ‘ the  most 
unfortunate  of  men.’ 

Time  at  length  gave  him  the  solution  ; circumstances  oc- 
curred which  forced  him  to  decide.  The  popularity  of  the 
Robbers  had  brought  him  into  correspondence  with  several 
friends  of  literature,  who  wished  to  patronise  the  author,  or 
engage  him  in  new  undertakings.  Among  this  number  was 
the  Freiherr  von  Dalberg,  superintendent  of  the  theatre  at 
Mannheim,  under  whose  encouragement  and  countenance 
Schiller  remodelled  the  Robbers,  altered  it  in  some  parts,  and 
had  it  brought  upon  the  stage  in  1781.  The  correspondence 
with  Dalberg  began  in  literary  discussions,  but  gradually  ele- 
vated itself  into  the  expression  of  more  interesting  sentiments. 
Dalberg  loved  and  sympathised  with  the  generous  enthusiast, 
involved  in  troubles  and  perplexities  which  his  inexperience 
was  so  little  adequate  to  thread  : he  gave  him  advice  and  as- 
sistance ; and  Schiller  repaid  this  favour  with  the  gratitude 
due  to  his  kind,  his  first,  and  then  almost  his  only  benefactor. 
His  letters  to  this  gentleman  have  been  preserved,  and  lately 
published  ; they  exhibit  a lively  picture  of  Schiller’s  painful 
situation  at  Stuttgard,  and  of  his  unskilful  as  well  as  eager 
anxiety  to  be  delivered  from  it.1  His  darling  project  was  that 
Dalberg  should  bring  him  to  Mannheim,  as  theatrical  poet,  by 
permission  of  the  Duke  : at  one  time  he  even  thought  of  turn- 
ing player. 


1 See  Appendix,  No.  2. 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


33 


Neither  of  these  projects  could  take  immediate  effect,  and 
Schiller’s  embarrassments  became  more  pressing  than  ever. 
With  the  natural  feeling  of  a young  author,  he  had  ventured 
to  go  in  secret,  and  witness  the  first  representation  of  his 
tragedy,  at  Mannheim.  His  incognito  did  not  conceal  him  ; 
he  was  put  under  arrest  during  a week,  for  this  offence  : and 
as  the  punishment  did  not  deter  him  from  again  transgressing 
in  a similar  manner,  he  learned  that  it  was  in  contemplation 
to  try  more  rigorous  measures  with  him.  Dark  hints  were 
given  to  him  of  some  exemplary  as  well  as  imminent  severity  : 
and  Dalberg’s  aid,  the  sole  hope  of  averting  it  by  quiet  means, 
was  distant  and  dubious.  Schiller  saw  himself  reduced  to  ex- 
tremities. Beleaguered  with  present  distresses,  and  the  most 
horrible  forebodings,  on  every  side  ; roused  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  indignation,  yet  forced  to  keep  silence,  and  wear  the 
face  of  patience,  he  could  endure  this  maddening  constraint 
no  longer.  He  resolved  to  be  free,  at  whatever  risk  ; to  aban- 
don advantages  which  he  could  not  buy  at  such  a price  ; to 
quit  his  stepdame  home,  and  go  forth,  though  friendless  and 
alone,  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  great  market  of  life.  Some 
foreign  Duke  or  Prince  was  arriving  at  Stuttgard ; and  all  the 
people  were  in  movement,  occupied  with  seeing  the  specta- 
cle of  his  entrance  : Schiller  seized  this  opportunity  of  retir- 
ing from  the  city,  careless  whither  he  went,  so  he  got  beyond 
the  reach  of  turnkeys,  and  Grand  Dukes,  and  commanding 
officers.  It 'was  in  the  month  of  October  1782. 

This  last  step  forms  the  catastrophe  of  the  publication  of 
the  Robbers  : it  completed  the  deliverance  of  Schiller  from  the 
grating  thraldom  under  which  his  youth  had  been  passed, 
and  decided  his  destiny  for  life.  Schiller  was  in  his  twenty- 
third  year  when  he  left  Stuttgard.  He  says  ‘lie  went  empty 
away, — empty  in  purse  and  hope.’  The  future  was  indeed 
sufficiently  dark  before  him.  Without  patrons,  connexions, 
or  country,  he  had  ventured  forth  to  the  warfare  on  his  own 
charges  ; without  means,  experience,  or  settled  purpose,  it  was 
greatly  to  be  feared  that  the  fight  would  go  against  him.  Yet 
his  situation,  though  gloomy  enough,  was  not  entirely  without 
its  brighter  side.  He  was  now  a free  man,  free,  however 


34 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  RICH  SCHILLER. 


poor  ; and  his  strong  soul  quickened  as  its  fetters  dropped  off, 
and  gloried  within  him  in  the  dim  anticipation  of  great  and 
far-extending  enterprises.  If,  cast  too  rudely  among  the 
hardships  and  bitter  disquietudes  of  the  world,  his  past  nurs- 
ing had  not  been  delicate,  he  was  already  taught  to  look  upon 
privation  and  discomfort  as  his  daily  companions.  If  he  knew 
not  how  to  bend  his  course  among  the  perplexed  vicissitudes 
of  society,  there  was  a force  within  him  which  would  triumph 
over  many  difficulties  ; and  a ‘ light  from  Heaven  ’ was  about 
his  path,  which,  if  it  failed  to  conduct  him  to  wealth  and  pre- 
ferment, would  keep  him  far  from  baseness  and  degrading 
vices.  Literature,  and  every  great  and  noble  thing  which  the 
right  pursuit  of  it  implies,  he  loved  with  all  his  heart  and  all 
his  soul : to  this  inspiring  object  he  was  henceforth  exclusively 
devoted  ; advancing  towards  this,  and  possessed  of  common 
necessaries  on  the  humblest  scale,  there  wras  little  else  to  tempt 
him.  His  life  might  be  unhappy,  but  would  hardly  be  dis- 
graceful. 

Schiller  gradually  felt  all  this,  and  gathered  comfort,  while 
better  days  began  to  dawn  upon  him.  Fearful  of  trusting 
himself  so  near  Stuttgard  as  at  Mannheim,  he  had  passed  into 
Franconia,  and  was  living  painfully  at  Oggersheim,  under  the 
name  of  Schmidt : but  Dalberg,  who  knew  all  his  distresses, 
supplied  him  with  money  for  immediate  wants  ; and  a gener- 
ous lady  made  him  the  offer  of  a home.  Madam  von  Wolzo- 
gen  lived  on  her  estate  of  Bauerbach,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Meinungen  ; she  knew  Schiller  from  his  works,  and  his  in- 
timacy with  her  sons,  who  had  been  his  fellow-students  at 
Stuttgard.  She  invited  him  to  her  house  ; and  there  treated 
him  with  an  affection  which  helped  him  to  forget  the  past,  and 
look  cheerfully  forward  to  the  future. 

Under  this  hospitable  roof,  Schiller  had  leisure  to  examine 
calmly  the  perplexed  and  dubious  aspect  of  his  affairs.  Hap- 
pily his  character  belonged  not  to  the  whining  or  sentimental 
sort  : he  was  not  of  those,  in  whom  the  pressure  of  misfor- 
tune produces  nothing  but  unprofitable  pain  ; who  spend,  in 
cherishing  and  investigating  and  deploring  then-  miseries,  the 
time  which  should  be  spent  in  providing  a relief  for  them. 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


35  > 

With  him,  strong  feeling  was  constantly  a call  to  vigorous  ac- 
tion : he  possessed  in  a high  degree  the  faculty  of  conquering 
his  afflictions,  by  directing  his  thoughts,  not  to  maxims  for 
enduring  them,  or  modes  of  expressing  them  with  interest, 
but  to  plans  for  getting  rid  of  them  ; and  to  this  disposition 
or  habit, — too  rare  among  men  of  genius,  men  of  a much 
higher  class  than  mere  sentimentalists,  but  whose  sensibility 
is  out  of  proportion  with  their  inventiveness  or  activity, — we 
are  to  attribute  no  small  influence  in  the  fortunate  conduct  of 
his  subsequent  life.  With  such  a turn  of  mind,  Schiller,  now 
that  he  was  at  length  master  of  his  own  movements,  could  not 
long  be  at  a loss  for  plans  or  tasks.  Once  settled  at  Bauer- 
bacli,  he  immediately  resumed  his  poetical  employments  ; and 
forgot,  in  the  regions  of  fancy,  the  vague  uncertainties  of 
his  real  condition,  or  saw  prospects  of  amending  it  in  a life  of 
literature.  By  many  safe  and  sagacious  persons,  the  prudence 
of  his  late  proceedings  might  be  more  than  questioned  ; it 
was  natural  for  many  to  forebode  that  one  who  left  the  port  so 
rashly,  and  sailed  with  such  precipitation,  was  likely  to  make 
shipwreck  ere  the  voyage  had  extended  far  : but  the  lapse  of 
a few  months  put  a stop  to  such  predictions.  A year  had 
not  passed  since  his  departure,  when  Schiller  sent  forth  his 
Verschworung  des  Fiesco  and  Kabale  und  Liebe ; tragedies 
which  testified  that,  dangerous  and  arduous  as  the  life  he  had 
selected  might  be,  he  possessed  resources  more  than  adequate 
to  its  emergencies.  Fiesco  he  had  commenced  during  the 
period  of  his  arrest  at  Stuttgard ; it  was  published,  with  the 
other  play,  in  1783  ; and  soon  after  brought  upon  the  Mann- 
heim theatre,  with  universal  approbation. 

It  was  now  about  three  years  since  the  composition  of  the 
Robbers  had  been  finished  ; five  since  the  first  sketch  of  it 
had  been  formed.  With  what  zeal  and  success  Schiller  had, 
in  that  interval,  pursued  the  work  of  his  mental*culture,  these 
two  dramas  are  a striking  proof.  The  first  ardour  of  youth  is 
still  to  be  discerned  in  them  ; but  it  is  now  chastened  by  the 
dictates  of  a maturer  reason,  and  made  to  animate  the  products 
of  a much  happier  and  more  skilful  invention.  Schiller’s 
ideas  of  art  had  expanded  and  grown  clearer,  his  knowledge 


36 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


of  life  bad  enlarged.  He  exhibits  more  acquaintance  with  the 
fundamental  principles  of  human  nature,  as  well  as  with  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  usually  displays  itself  ; and  far 
higher  and  juster  views  of  the  manner  in  which  its  manifesta- 
tions should  be  represented. 

In  the  Conspiracy  of  Fiesco  wre  have  to  admire  not  only  the 
energetic  animation  which  the  author  has  infused  into  all  his 
characters,  but  the  distinctness  with  which  he  has  discrimi- 
nated, without  aggravating  them  ; and  the  vividness  with  which 
he  has  contrived  to  depict  the  scene  where  they  act  and  move. 
The  political  and  personal  relations  of  the  Genoese  nobility  ; 
the  luxurious  splendour,  the  intrigues,  the  feuds,  and  jarring 
interests,  which  occupy  them,  are  made  visible  before  us  : we 
understand  and  may  appreciate  the  complexities  of  the  con- 
spiracy ; we  mingle,  as  among  realities,  in  the  pompous  and 
imposing  movements  which  lead  to  the  catastrophe.  The 
catastrophe  itself  is  displayed  with  peculiar  effect.  The  mid- 
night silence  of  the  sleeping  city,  interrupted  only  by  the  dis- 
tant sounds  of  watchmen,  by  the  low  hoarse  murmur  of  the 
sea,  or  the  stealthy  footsteps  and  disguised  voice  of  Fiesco,  is 
conveyed  to  our  imagination  by  some  brief  but  graphic 
touches  ; we  seem  to  stand  in  the  solitude  and  deep  stillness 
of  Genoa,  awaiting  the  signal  which  is  to  burst  so  fearfully 
upon  its  slumber.  At  length  the  gun  is  fired  ; and  the  wild 
uproar  which  ensues  is  no  less  strikingly  exhibited.  The 
deeds  and  sounds  of  violence,  astonishment  and  terror ; the 
volleying  cannon,  the  heavy  toll  of  the  alarm-bells,  the  acclama- 
tion of  assembled  thousands,  ‘ the  voice  of  Genoa  speaking 
with  Fiesco,’ — all  is  made  present  to  us  with  a force  and  clear- 
ness, which  of  itself  were  enough  to  show  no  ordinary  power 
of  close  and  comprehensive  conception,  no  ordinary  skill  in  ar- 
ranging and  expressing  its  results. 

But  it  is  not  this  felicitous  delineation  of  circumstances  and 
visible  scenes  that  constitutes  our  principal  enjoyment.  The 
faculty  of  penetrating  through  obscurity  and  confusion,  to 
seize  the  characteristic  features  of  an  object,  abstract  or  ma- 
terial ; of  producing  a lively  description  in  the  latter  case,  an 
accurate  and  keen  scrutiny  in  the  former,  is  the  essential  prop- 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


37 


erty  of  intellect,  and  occupies  in  its  best  form  a high  rank  in 
the  scale  of  mental  gifts : but  the  creative  faculty  of  the  poet, 
and  especially  of  the  dramatic  poet,  is  something  superadded 
to  this  ; it  is  far  rarer,  and  occupies  a rank  far  higher.  In 
this  particular,  Fiesco,  without  approaching  the  limits  of  per- 
fection, yet  stands  in  an  elevated  range  of  excellence.  The 
characters,  on  the  whole,  are  imagined  and  portrayed  with 
great  impressiveness  and  vigour.  Traces  of  old  faults  are 
indeed  still  to  be  discovered  : there  still  seems  a want  of 
pliancy  about  the  genius  of  the  author  ; a stiffness  and  heavi- 
ness in  his  motions.  His  sublimity  is  not  to  be  questioned  ; 
but  it  does  not  always  disdain  the  aid  of  rude  contrasts  and 
mere  theatrical  effect.  He  paints  in  colours  deep  and  glow- 
ing, but  without  sufficient  skill  to  blend  them  delicately  : he 
amplifies  nature  more  than  purifies  it  ; he  omits,  but  does  not 
well  conceal  the  omission.  Fiesco  has  not  the  complete  charm 
of  a true  though  embellished  resemblance  to  reality ; its  at- 
traction rather  lies  in  a kind  of  colossal  magnitude,  which  re- 
quires it,  if  seen  to  advantage,  to  be  viewed  from  a distance. 
Yet  the  prevailing  qualities  of  the  piece  do  more  than  make 
us  pardon  such  defects.  If  the  dramatic  imitation  is  not  al- 
ways entirely  successful,  it  is  never  very  distant  from  success  ; 
and  a constant  flow  of  powerful  thought  and  sentiment  coun- 
teracts, or  prevents  us  from  noticing,  the  failure.  We  find 
evidence  of  great  philosophic  penetration,  great  resources  of 
invention,  directed  by  a skilful  study  of  history  and  men  ; and 
everywhere  a bold  grandeur  of  feeling  and  imagery  gives  life 
to  what  study  has  combined.  The  chief  incidents  have  a daz- 
zling magnificence  ; the  chief  characters,  an  aspect  of  majesty 
and  force  which  corresponds  to  it.  Fervour  of  heart,  capa- 
ciousness of  intellect  and  imagination,  present  themselves  on 
all  sides  : the  general  effect  is  powerful  and  exalting. 

Fiesco  himself  is  a personage  at  once  probable  and  tragi- 
cally interesting.  The  luxurious  dissipation,  in  which  he  veils 
his  daring  projects,  softens  the  rudeness  of  that  strength  which 
it  half  conceals.  His  immeasurable  pride  expands  itself  not 
only  into  a disdain  of  subjection,  but  also  into  the  most  lofty 
acts  of  magnanimity  : his  blind  confidence  in  fortune  seems 


33 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


almost  warranted  by  the  resources  which  he  finds  in  his  own 
fearlessness  and  imperturbable  presence  of  mind.  His  ambi- 
tion participates  in  the  nobleness  of  his  other  qualities  ; he  is 
less  anxious  that  his  rivals  should  yield  to  him  in  power  than 
in  generosity  and  greatness  of  character,  attributes  of  which 
power  is  with  him  but  the  symbol  and  the  fit  employment. 
Ambition  in  Fiesco  is  indeed  the  common  wish  of  every  mind 
to  diffuse  its  individual  influence,  to  see  its  own  activity  re- 
flected back  from  the  united  minds  of  millions  : but  it  is  the 
common  wish  acting  on  no  common  man.  He  does  not  long 
to  rule,  that  he  may  sway  other  wills,  as  it  were,  by  the  phys- 
ical exertion  of  his  own  : he  would  lead  us  captive  by  the 
superior  grandeur  of  his  qualities,  once  fairly  manifested  ; and 
he  aims  at  dominion,  chiefly  as  it  will  enable  him  to  manifest 
these.  ‘ It  is  not  the  arena  that  he  values,  but  what  lies  in 
that  arena  : ’ the  sovereignty  is  enviable,  not  for  its  adventi- 
tious splendour,  not  because  it  is  the  object  of  coarse  and 
universal  wonder  ; but  as  it  offers,  in  the  collected  force  of  a 
nation,  something  which  the  loftiest  mortal  may  find  scope 
for  all  his  powers  in  guiding.  “ Spread  out  the  thunder,” 
Fiesco  exclaims,  “ into  its  single  tones,  and  it  becomes  a 
lullaby  for  children : pour  it  forth  together  in  one  quick 
peal,  and  the  royal  sound  shall  move  the  heavens.”  His 
affections  are  not  less  vehement  than  his  other  passions  : his 
heart  can  be  melted  into  powerlessness  and  tenderness  by  the 
mild  persuasions  of  his  Leonora  ; the  idea  of  exalting  this 
amiable  being  mingles  largely  with  the  other  motives  to  his 
enterprise.  He  is,  in  fact,  a great,  and  might  have  been  a 
virtuous  man  ; and  though  in  the  pursuit  of  grandeur-  he 
swerves  from  absolute  rectitude,  we  still  respect  his  splendid 
qualities,  and  admit  the  force  of  the  allurements  which  have 
led  him  astray.  It  is  but  faintly  that  we  condemn  his  sen- 
timents, when,  after  a night  spent  in  struggles  between  a 
rigid  and  a more  accommodating  patriotism,  he  looks  out  of 
his  chamber,  as  the  sun  is  rising  in  its  calm  beauty,  and  gild- 
ing the  waves  and  mountains,  and  all  the  innumerable  palaces 
and  domes  and  spires  of  Genoa,  and  exclaims  with  rapture : 
“ This  majestic  city — mine  ! To  flame  over  it  like  the  kingly 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


39 


Day  ; to  brood  over  it  with  a monarch’s-  power  ; all  these 
sleepless  longings,  all  these  never  satiated  wishes  to  be 
drowned  in  that  unfathomable  ocean  ! ” We  admire  Fiesco, 
we  disapprove  of  him,  and  sympathise  with  him  : he  is  crushed 
iu  the  ponderous  machinery  Avhich  himself  put  in  motion  and 
thought  to  control  : we  lament  his  fate,  but  confess  that  it  was 
not  undeserved.  He  is  a fit  ‘ offering  of  individual  free-will 
to  the  force  of  social  conventions.’ 

Fiesco  is  not  the  only  striking  character  in  the  play  which 
bears  his  name.  The  narrow  fanatical  republican  virtue  of 
Verrina,  the  mild  and  venerable  wisdom  of  the  old  Doria,  the 
unbridled  profligacy  of  his  nephew,  even  the  cold,  contented, 
irreclaimable  perversity  of  the  cutthroat  Moor,  all  dwell  in  our 
recollections  : but  what,  next  to  Fiesco,  chiefly  attracts  us,  is 
the  character  of  Leonora  his  wife.  Leonora  is  of  kindred  to 
Amelia  in  the  Robbers,  but  involved  in  more  complicated  re- 
lations, and  brought  nearer  to  the  actual  condition  of  human- 
ity. She  is  such  a heroine  as  Schiller  most  delights  to  draw. 
Meek  and  retiring  by  the  softness  of  her  nature,  yet  glowing 
with  an  ethereal  ardour  for  all  that  is  illustrious  and  lovely, 
she  clings  about  her  husband,  as  if  her  being  were  one  with 
his.  She  dreams  of  remote  and  peaceful  scenes,  where  Fiesco 
should  be  all  to  her,  she  all  to  Fiesco  : her  idea  of  love  is, 
that  ‘ her  name  should  lie  in  secret  behind  every  one  of  his 
thoughts,  should  speak  to  him  from  every  object  of  Nature  ; 
that  for  him,  this  bright  majestic  universe  itself  were  but  as 
the  shining  jewel,  on  wdiich  her  image,  only  hers,  stood  en- 
graved.’ Her  character  seems  a reflection  of  Fiesco’s,  but 
refined  from  his  grosser  strength,  and  transfigured  into  a 
celestial  form  of  purity,  and  tenderness,  and  touching  grace. 
Jealousy  cannot  move  her  into  anger  ; she  languishes  in  con- 
cealed sorrow,  when  she  thinks  herself  forgotten.  It  is  affec- 
tion alone  that  can  rouse  her  into  passion  ; but  under  the  in- 
fluence of  this,  she  forgets  all  weakness  and  fear.  She  cannot 
stay  in  her  palace,  on  the  night  when  Fiesco’s  destiny  is  de- 
ciding ; she  rushes  forth,  as  if  inspired,  to  share  in  her  hus- 
band’s dangers  and  sublime  deeds,  and  perishes  at  last  in  the 
tumult. 


40 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


The  death  of  Leonora,  so  brought  about,  and  at  such  a 
time,  is  reckoned  among  the  blemishes  of  the  work  : that  of 
Fiesco,  in  which  Schiller  has  ventured  to  depart  from  history, 
is  to  be  more  favourably  judged  of.  Fiesco  is  not  here  acci- 
dentally drowned  ; but  plunged  into  the  waves  by  the  indig- 
nant Verrina,  who  forgets  or  stifles  the  feelings  of  friendship, 
in  his  rage  at  political  apostasy.  ‘ The  nature  of  the  Drama,’ 
we  are  justly  told,  ‘ will  not  suffer  the  operation  of  Chance,  or 
of  an  immediate  Providence.  Higher  spirits  can  discern  the 
minute  fibres  of  an  event  stretching  through  the  whole  ex- 
panse of  the  system  of  the  world,  and  hanging,  it  may  be,  on 
the  remotest  limits  of  the  future  and  the  past,  where  man  dis- 
cerns nothing  save  the  action  itself,  hovering  unconnected  in 
space.  But  the  artist  has  to  paint  for  the  short  view  of  man, 
whom  he  wishes  to  instruct  ; not  for  the  piercing  eye  of  supe- 
rior powers,  from  whom  he  learns.’ 

In  the  composition  of  Fiesco,  Schiller  derived  the  main  part 
of  his  original  materials  from  history  ; he  could  increase  the 
effect  by  gorgeous  representations,  and  ideas  preexisting  in 
the  mind  of  his  reader.  Enormity  of  incident  and  strangeness 
of  situation  lent  him  a similar  assistance  in  the  Robbers.  Ka- 
bale  und  Liebe  is  destitute  of  these  advantages  ; it  is  a tragedy 
of  domestic  life  ; its  means  of  interesting  are  comprised  with- 
in itself,  and  rest  on  very  simple  feelings,  dignified  by  no  very 
singular  action.  The  name,  Court- Intriguing  and  Lone,  cor- 
rectly designates  its  nature  ; it  aims  at  exhibiting  the  conflict, 
the  victorious  conflict,  of  political  manoeuvering,  of  cold 
worldly  wisdom,  with  the  pure  impassioned  movements  of  the 
young  heart,  as  yet  unsullied  by  the  tarnish  of  every-day  life, 
inexperienced  in  its  calculations,  sick  of  its  empty  formalities, 
and  indignantly  determined  to  cast  off  the  mean  restrictions 
it  imposes,  which  bind  so  firmly  by  their  number,  though 
singly  so  contemptible.  The  idea  is  far  from  original : this  is 
a conflict  which  most  men  have  figured  to  themselves,  which 
many  men  of  ardent  mind  are  in  some  degree  constantly  wag- 
ing. To  make  it,  in  this  simple  form,  the  subject  of  a drama, 
seems  to  be  a thought  of  Schiller’s  own  ; but  the  praise. 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


41 


though  not  the  merit  of  his  undertaking,  considerable  rather 
as  performed  than  projected,  has  been  lessened  by  a multitude 
of  worthless  or  noxious  imitations.  The  same  primary  con- 
ception has  been  tortured  into  a thousand  shapes,  and  tricked 
out  with  a thousand  tawdry  devices  and  meretricious  orna- 
ments, by  the  Kotzebues,  and  other  ‘intellectual  Jacobins,’ 
whose  productions  have  brought  what  we  falsely  call  the 
‘ German  Theatre  ’ into  such  deserved  contempt  in  England. 
Some  portion  of  the  gall,  due  only  to  these  inflated,  flimsy, 
and  fantastic  persons,  appeal’s  to  have  acted  on  certain  critics 
in  estimating  this  play  of  Schiller’s.  August  Wilhelm  Schlegel 
speaks  slightingly  of  the  work  : he  says,  ‘ it  will  hardly  move 
us  by  its  tone  of  overstrained  sensibility,  but  may  well  afflict 
us  by  the  painful  impressions  which  it  leaves.’  Our  own  ex- 
perience has  been  different  from  that  of  Schlegel.  In  the 
characters  of  Louisa  and  Ferdinand  Walter  we  discovered  lit- 
tle overstraining  ; their  sensibility  we  did  not  reckon  very 
criminal  ; seeing  it  united  with  a clearness  of  judgment,  chast- 
ened by  a purity  of  heart,  and  controlled  by  a force  of  virtu- 
ous resolution,  in  full  proportion  with  itself.  We  rather 
admired  the  genius  of  the  poet,  which  could  elevate  a poor  mu- 
sic-master’s daughter  to  the  dignity  of  a heroine  ; could  rep- 
resent, without  wounding  our  sense  of  propriety,  the  affection 
of  two  noble  beings,  created  for  each  other  by  nature,  and 
divided  by  rank  ; we  sympathised  in  their  sentiments  enough 
to  feel  a proper  interest  in  their  fate,  and  see  in  them,  w’hat 
the  author  meant  we  should  see,  two  pure  and  lofty  minds  in- 
volved in  the  meshes  of  vulgar  cunning,  and  borne  to  destruc- 
tion by  the  excess  of  their  own  good  qualities  and  the  crimes 
of  others. 

Ferdinand  is  a nobleman,  but  not  convinced  that  ‘ his  pa- 
tent of  nobility  is  more  ancient  or  of  more  authority  than  the 
primeval  scheme  of  the  universe  : ’ he  speaks  and  acts  like  a 
young  man  entertaining  such  persuasions  : disposed  to  yield 
everything  to  reason  and  true  honour,  but  scarcely  anything 
to  mere  use  and  wont.  His  passion  for  Louisa  is  the  sign  and 
the  nourishment  rather  than  the  cause  of  such  a temper  : he 
loves  her  without  limit,  as  the  only  creature  he  has  ever  met 


4 2 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


with  of  a like  mind  with  himself  ; and  this  feeling  exalts  into 
inspiration  what  was  already  the  dictate  of  his  nature.  We 
accompany  him  on  his  straight  and  plain  path  ; we  rejoice  to 
see  him  fling  aside  with  a strong  arm  the  artifices  and  allure- 
ments with  which  a worthless  father  and  more  worthless  asso- 
ciates assail  him  at  first  in  vain  : there  is  something  attractive 
in  the  spectacle  of  native  integrity,  fearless  though  inexperi- 
enced, at  war  with  selfishness  and  craft ; something  mournful, 
because  the  victory  will  seldom  go  as  we  would  have  it. 

Louisa  is  a meet  partner  for  the  generous  Ferdinand  : the' 
poet  has  done  justice  to  her  character.  She  is  timid  and  hum- 
ble ; a feeling  and  richly  gifted  soul  is  hid  in  her  by  the  un- 
kindness of  her  earthly  lot ; she  is  without  counsellors  except 
the  innate  holiness  of  her  heart,  and  the  dictates  of  her  keen 
though  untutored  understanding  ; yet  when  the  hour  of  trial 
comes,  she  can  obey  the  commands  of  both,  and  draw  from 
herself  a genuine  nobleness  of  conduct,  which  secondhand 
prudence,  and  wealth,  and  titles,  would  but  render  less  touch- 
ing. Her  filial  affection,  her  angelic  attachment  to  her  lover, 
her  sublime  and  artless  piety,  are  beautifully  contrasted  with 
the  bleakness  of  her  external  circumstances  : she  appears  be- 
fore us  like  the  ‘ one  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk,’ 
and  we  grieve  to  see  it  crushed  and  trodden  down  so  rudely. 

The  innocence,  the  enthusiasm,  the  exalted  life  and  stem 
fate  of  Louisa  and  Ferdinand  give  a powerful  charm  to  this 
tragedy  : it  is  everywhere  interspersed  Avith  pieces  of  fine  elo- 
quence, and  scenes  Avhich  moAre  us  by  their  dignity  or  pathos. 
We  recollect  feAv  passages  of  a more  overpowering  nature  than 
the  conclusion,  where  Ferdinand,  beguiled  by  the  most  dia- 
bolical machinations  to  disbelieve  the  virtue  of  his  mistress, 
puts  himself  and  her  to  death  by  poison.  There  is  a gloomy 
and  solemn  might  in  his  despair  ; though  overwhelmed,  he 
seems  invincible  : his  enemies  have  blinded  and  imprisoned 
him  in  their  deceptions  ; but  only  that,  like  Samson,  he  may 
overturn  his  prison-house,  and  bury  himself,  and  all  that  have 
wronged  him,  in  its  ruins. 

The  other  characters  of  the  play,  though  in  general  properly 
sustained,  are  not  sufficiently  remarkable  to  claim  much  of 


SCHILLER’S  YOUTH. 


43 

out  attention.  Wurm,  tlie  chief  counsellor  and  agent  of  the 
unprincipled,  calculating  Father,  is  wicked  enough;  but  there 
is  no  great  singularity  in  his  wickedness.  He  is  little  more 
than  the  dry,  cool,  and  now  somewhat  vulgar  miscreant,  the 
villanous  Attorney  of  modern  novels.  Kalb  also  is  but  a 
worthless  subject,  and  what  is  worse,  but  indifferently  handled. 
He  is  meant  for  the  feather-brained  thing  of  tags  and  laces, 
which  frequently  inhabits  courts  ; but  he  wants  the  grace  and 
agility  proper  to  the  species  ; he  is  less  a fool  than  a block- 
head, less  perverted  than  totally  inane.  Schiller’s  strength 
lay  not  in  comedy,  but  in  something  far  higher.  The  great 
merit  of  the  present  work  consists  in  the  characters  of  the 
hero  and  heroine  ; and  in  this  respect  it  ranks  at  the  very 
head  of  its  class.  As  a tragedy  of  common  life,  we  know  of 
few  rivals  to  it,  certainly  of  no  superior. 

The  production  of  three  such  pieces  as  the  Robbers,  Fiesco, 
and  Kabale  und  Liebe,  already  announced  to  the  world  that 
another  great  and  original  mind  had  appeared,  from  whose 
maturity,  when  such  was  the  promise  of  its  youth,  the  highest 
expectations  might  be  formed.  These  three  plays  stand  re- 
lated to  each  other  in  regard  to  their  nature  and  form,  as  well 
as  date  : they  exhibit  the  progressive  state  of  Schiller’s  educa- 
tion ; show  us  the  fiery  enthusiasm  of  youth,  exasperated  into 
■wildness,  astonishing  in  its  movements  rather  than  sublime  ; 
and  the  same  enthusiasm  gradually  yielding  to  the  sway  of 
reason,  gradually  using  itself  to  the  constraints  prescribed  by 
sound  judgment  and  more  extensive  knowledge.  Of  the 
three,  the  Robbers  is  doubtless  the  most  singular,  and  likely 
perhaps  to  be  the  most  widely  popular  : but  the  latter  two  are 
of  more  real  worth  in  the  eye  of  taste  and  will  better  bear  a 
careful  and  rigorous  study. 

With  the  appearance  of  Fiesco  and  its  companion,  the  first 
period  of  Schiller’s  literary  history  may  conclude.  The  stormy 
confusions  of  his  youth  were  now  subsiding  ; after  all  his  aber- 
rations, repulses,  and  perplexed  wanderings,  he  was  at  length 
about  to  reach  his  true  destination,  and  times  of  more  serenity 
began  to  open  for  him.  Two  such  tragedies  as  he  had  lately 


44 


TEE  LIFE  OF  F PEED  RICE  SCEILLER. 


offered  to  the  world  made  it  easier  for  his  friend  Dalberg  to 
second  his  pretensions.  Schiller  was  at  last  gratified  by  the 
fulfilment  of  his  favourite  scheme  ; in  September  1783,  he  went 
to  Mannheim,  as  poet  to  the  theatre,  a post  of  respectability 
and  reasonable  profit,  to  the  duties  of  which  he  forthwith  ad- 
dressed himself  with  all  his  heart.  He  was  not  long  afterwards 
elected  a member  of  the  German  Society  established  for  liter- 
ary objects  in  Mannheim  ; and  he  valued  the  honour,  not  only 
as  a testimony  of  respect  from  a highly  estimable  quarter,  but 
also  as  a means  of  uniting  him  more  closely  with  men  of  kin- 
dred pursuits  and  tempers  : and  what  was  more  than  all,  of 
quieting  forever  his  apprehensions  from  the  government  at 
Stuttgard.  Since  his  arrival  at  Mannheim,  one  or  two  sus- 
picious incidents  had  again  alarmed  him  on  this  head  ; but 
being  now  acknowledged  as  a subject  of  the  Elector  Palatine, 
naturalised  by  law  in  his  new  country,  he  had  nothing  more 
to  fear  from  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg. 

Satisfied  with  his  moderate  income,  safe,  free,  and  sur- 
rounded by  friends  that  loved  and  honoured  him,  Schiller  now 
looked  confidently  forward  to  what  all  his  efforts  had  been  a 
search  and  hitherto  a fruitless  search  for,  an  undisturbed  life 
of  intellectual  labour.  What  effect  this  happy  aspect  of  his  cir- 
cumstances must  have  produced  upon  him  may  be  easily  con- 
jectured. Through  many  years  he  had  been  inured  to  agi- 
tation and  distress  ; now  peafce  and  liberty  and  hope,  sweet  in 
themselves,  were  sweeter  for  their  novelty.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  he  saw  himself  allowed  to  obey  without  reluctance 
the  ruling  bias  of  his  nature  ; for  the  first  time  inclination  and 
duty  went  hand  in  hand.  His  activity  awoke  with  renovated 
force  in  this  favourable  scene  ; long-thwarted,  half-forgotten 
projects  again  kindled  into  brightness,  as  the  possibility  of  their 
accomplishment  became  apparent : Schiller  glowed  with  a gen- 
erous pride  when  he  felt  his  faculties  at  his  own  disposal,  and 
thought  of  the  use  he  meant  to  make  of  them.  ‘ All  my  con- 
nexions,’ he  said,  ‘ are  now  dissolved.  The  public  is  now  all 
to  me,  my  study,  my  sovereign,  my  confidant.  To  the  pub- 
lic alone  I henceforth  belong  ; before  this  and  no  other  tri- 
bunal will  I place  myself  ; this  alone  do  I reverence  and  fear. 


SCHILLER'S  YOUTH. 


45 


Something  majestic  hovers  before  me,  as  I determine  now  to 
wear  no  other  fetters  but  the  sentence  of  the  world,  to  appeal 
to  no  other  throne  but  the  soul  of  man.’ 

These  expressions  are  extracted  from  the  preface  to  his  Thalia, 
a perodical  work  which  he  undertook  in  1784,  devoted  to  sub- 
jects connected  with  poetry,  and  chiefly  with  the  drama.  In  such 
sentiments  we  leave  him,  commencing  the  arduous  and  perilous, 
but  also  glorious  and  sublime  duties  of  a life  consecrated  to  the 
discovery  of  truth,  and  the  creation  of  intellectual  beauty.  He 
was  now  exclusively  what  is  called  a Mari  of  Letters,  for  the 
rest  of  his  days. 


PAET  II. 


FROM  SCHILLER’S  SETTLEMENT  AT  MANNHEIM 
TO  HIS  SETTLEMENT  AT  JENA. 

(1783-1790.) 

Ip  to  know  wisdom  were  to  practise  it  ; if  fame  brought 
true  dignity  and  peace  of  mind  ; or  happiness  consisted  in 
nourishing  the  intellect  with  its  appropriate  food,  and  sur- 
rounding the  imagination  with  ideal  beauty,  a literary  life 
would  be  the  most  enviable  which  the  lot  of  this  world  affords. 
But  the  truth  is  far  otherwise.  The  Man  of  Letters  has  no 
immutable,  all-conquering  volition,  more  than  other  men ; to 
understand  and  to  perform  are  two  very  different  things  with 
him  as  with  every  one.  His  fame  rarely  exerts  a favourable 
influence  on  his  dignity  of  character,  and  never  on  his  peace 
of  mind  : its  glitter  is  external,  for  the  eyes  of  others  ; within, 
it  is  but  the  aliment  of  unrest,  the  oil  cast  upon  the  ever- 
gnawing  fire  of  ambition,  quickening  into  fresh  vehemence  the 
blaze  which  it  stills  for  a moment.  Moreover,  this  Man  of 
Letters  is  not  wholly  made  of  spirit,  but  of  clay  and  spirit 
mixed  : his  thinking  faculties  may  be  nobly  trained  and  ex- 
ercised, but  he  must  have  affections  as  well  as  thoughts  to 
make  him  happy,  and  food  and  raiment  must  be  given  him 
or  he  dies.  Far  from  being  the  most  enviable,  his  way  of 
life  is  perhaps,  among  the  many  modes  by  which  an  ardent 
mind  endeavours  to  express  its  activity,  the  most  thickly  beset 
with  suffering  and  degradation.  Look  at  the  biography  of 
authors  ! Except  the  Newgate  Calendar,  it  is  the  most  sick- 
ening chapter  in  the  history  of  man.  The  calamities  of  these 
people  are  a fertile  topic  ; and  too  often  their  faults  and  vices 
have  kept  pace  with  their  calamities.  Nor  is  it  difficult  to 
see  how  this  has  happened.  Talent  of  any  sort  is  generally 


SCHILLER  AT  MANNHEIM. 


47 


accompanied  with  a peculiar  fineness  of  sensibility  ; of  genius 
this  is  the  most  essential  constituent  ; and  life  in  any  shape 
has  sorrows  enough  for  hearts  so  formed.  The  employments 
of  literature  sharpen  this  natural  tendency;  the  vexations 
that  accompany  them  frequently  exasperate  it  into  morbid 
soreness.  The  cares  and  toils  of  literature  are  the  business 
of  life  ; its  delights  are  too  ethereal  and  too  transient  to  fur- 
nish that  perennial  flow  of  satisfaction,  coarse  but  plenteous 
and  substantial,  of  which  happiness  in  this  world  of  ours  is 
made.  The  most  finished  efforts  of  the  mind  give  it  little  pleas- 
ure, frequently  they  give  it  pain  ; for  men’s  aims  are  ever  far  be- 
yond their  strength.  And  the  outward  recompense  of  these 
undertakings,  the  distinction  they  confer,  is  of  still  smaller 
value  : the  desire  for  it  is  insatiable  even  when  successful ; 
and  when  baffled,  it  issues  in  jealousy  and  envy,  and  every 
pitiful  and  painful  feeling.  So  keen  a temperament  with  so 
little  to  restrain  or  satisfy,  so  much  to  distress  or  tempt  it, 
produces  contradictions  which  few  are  adequate  to  reconcile. 
Hence  the  unhappiness  of  literary  men,  hence  then’  faults  and 
follies. 

Thus  literature  is  apt  to  form  a dangerous  and  discontent- 
ing occupation  even  for  the  amateur.  But  for  him  whose 
rank  and  worldly  comforts  depend  on  it,  who  does  not  live  to 
write,,  but  writes  to  live,  its  difficulties  and  perils  are  fearfully 
increased.  Few  spectacles  are  more  afflicting  than  that  of 
such  a man,  so  gifted  and  so  fated,  so  jostled  and  tossed  to 
and  fro  in  the  rude  bustle  of  life,  the  buffetings  of  which  he 
is  so  little  fitted  to  endure.  Cherishing,  it  may  be,  the  lofti- 
est thoughts,  and  clogged  with  the  meanest  wants  ; of  pure 
and  holy  purposes,  yet  ever  driven  from  the  straight  path  by 
the  pressure  of  necessity,  or  the  impulse  of  passion  ; thirsting 
for  glory,  and  frequently  in  want  of  daily  bread  ; hovering 
between  the  empyrean  of  his  fancy  and  the  squalid  desert  of 
reality  ; cramped  and  foiled  in  his  most  strenuous  exertions  ; 
dissatisfied  with  his  best  performances,  disgusted  with  his 
fortune,  this  Man  of  Letters  too  often  spends  his  weary  days 
in  conflicts  with  obscure  misery  : harassed,  chagrined,  de- 
based, or  maddened  ; the  victim  at  once  of  tragedy  and  farce  ; 


4S 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDEIC'II  SCHILLER. 


tlie  last  forlorn  outpost  in  the  war  of  Mind  against  Matter. 
Many  are  the  noble  souls  that  have  perished  bitterly,  with 
their  tasks  unfinished,  under  these  corroding  woes  ! Some  in 
utter  famine,  like  Otway  ; some  in  dark  insanity,  like  Cowper 
and  Collins  ; some,  like  Chatterton,  have  sought  out  a more 
stern  quietus,  and  turning  their  indignant  steps  away  from  a 
world  which  refused  them  welcome,  have  taken  refuge  in  that 
strong  Fortress,  where  poverty  and  cold  neglect,  and  the 
thousand  natural  shocks  which  flesh  is  heir  to,  could  not 
reach  them  any  more. 

Yet  among  these  men  are  to  be  found  the  brightest  speci- 
mens and  the  chief  benefactors  of  mankind  ! It  is  they  that 
keep  awake  the  finer  parts  of  our  souls  ; that  give  us  better 
aims  than  power  or  pleasure,  and  withstand  the  total  sove- 
reignty of  Mammon  in  this  earth.  They  are  the  Vanguard  in 
the  march  of  mind  ; the  intellectual  Backwoodsmen,  reclaim- 
ing from  the  idle  wilderness  new  territories  for  the  thought 
and  the  activity  of  their  happier  brethren.  Pity  that  from  all 
their  conquests,  so  rich  in  benefit  to  others,  themselves  should 
reap  so  little  ! But  it  is  vain  to  murmur.  They  are  volun- 
teers in  this  cause  ; they  weighed  the  charms  of  it  against  the 
perils  ; and  they  must  abide  the  results  of  their  decision,  as 
all  must.  The  hardships  of  the  course  they  follow  are  formi- 
dable, but  not  all  inevitable  ; and  to  such  as  pursue  it  rightly, 
it  is  not  without  its  great  rewards.  If  an  author’s  life  is  more 
agitated  and  more  painful  than  that  of  others,  it  may  also  be 
made  more  spirit-stirring  and  exalted  : fortune  may  render 
him  unhappy  ; it  is  only  himself  that  can  make  him  despicable. 
The  history  of  genius  has,  in  fact,  its  bright  side  as  well  as  its 
dark.  And  if  it  is  distressing  to  survey  the  misery,  and  what 
is  worse,  the  debasement  of  so  many  gifted  men,  it  is  doubly 
cheering  on  the  other  hand-  to  reflect  on  the  few,  who,  amid 
the  temptations  and  sorrows  to  which  life  in  all  its  provinces 
and  most  in  theirs  is  liable,  have  travelled  through  it  in  calm 
and  virtuous  majesty,  and  are  now  hallowed  in  our  memories, 
not  less  for  their  conduct  than  then-  writings.  Such  men  are 
the  flower  of  this  lower  world  : to  such  alone  can  the  epithet 
of  great  be  applied  with  its  true  emphasis.  There  is  a con- 


SCHILLER  AT  MANNHEIM. 


49 


gruity  in  their  proceedings  which  one  loves  to  contemplate  : 
‘ he  who  would  write  heroic  poems,  should  make  his  whole 
life  a heroic  poem.’ 

So  thought  our  Milton  ; and,  what  was  more  difficult,  he 
acted  so.  To  Milton,  the  moral  king  of  authors,  a heroic 
multitude,  out  of  many  ages  and  countries,  might  be  joined  ; 
a ‘ cloud  of  witnesses,’  that  encompass  the  true  literary  man 
throughout  his  pilgrimage,  inspiring  him  to  lofty  emulation, 
cheering  his  solitary  thoughts  with  hope,  teaching  him  to 
struggle,  to  endure,  to  conquer  difficulties,  or,  in  failure  and 
heavy  sufferings,  to 

‘ arm  tli’  obdured  breast 
With  stubborn  patience  as  witli  triple  steel.’ 

To  this  august  series,  in  his  own  degree,  the  name  of  Schiller 
may  be  added. 

Schiller  lived  in  more  peaceful  times  than  Milton  ; his  his- 
tory is  less  distinguished  by  obstacles  surmounted,  or  sacri- 
fices made  to  principles  ; yet  he  had  his  share  of  trials  to  en- 
counter ; and  the  admirers  of  his  writings  need  not  feel 
ashamed  of  the  way  in  which  he  bore  it.  One  virtue,  the 
parent  of  many  others,  and  the  most  essential  of  any,  in  his 
circumstances,  he  possessed  in  a supreme  degree  ; he  was  de- 
voted with  entire  and  unchanging  ardour  to  the  cause  he  had 
embarked  in.  The  extent  of  his  natural  endowments  might 
have  served,  with  a less  eager  character,  as  an  excuse  for  long 
periods  of  indolence,  broken  only  by  fits  of  casual  exertion  : 
with  him  it  was  but  a new  incitement  to  improve  and  de- 
velop them.  The  Ideal  Man  that  lay  within  him,  the  image 
of  himself  as  he  should  be,  was  formed  upon  a strict  and  curi- 
ous standard  ; and  to  reach  this  constantly  approached  and 
constantly  receding  emblem  of  perfection,  was  the  unwearied 
effort  of  his  life.  This  crowning  principle  of  conduct,  never 
ceasing  to  inspire  his  energetic  mind,  introduced  a consis- 
tency into  his  actions,  a firm  coherence  into  his  character, 
which  the  changeful  condition  of  his  history  rendered  of 
peculiar  importance.  His  resources,  his  place  of  residence, 
his  associates,  his  worldly  prospects,  might  vary  as  they 
4 


50 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


pleased  ; this  purpose  did  not  vary  ; it  was  ever  present  with 
him  to  nerve  every  better  faculty  of  his  head  and  heart,  to  in- 
vest the  chequered  vicissitudes  of  his  fortune  with  a dignity 
derived  from  himself.  The  zeal  of  his  nature  overcame  the 
temptations  to  that  loitering  and  indecision,  that  fluctuation 
between  sloth  and  consuming  toil,  that  infirmity  of  resolution, 
with  all  its  tormenting  and  enfeebling  consequences,  to  which 
a literary  man,  working  as  he  does  at  a solitary  task,  uncalled 
for  by  any  pressing  tangible  demand,  and  to  be  recompensed 
by  distant  and  dubious  advantage,  is  especially  exposed. 
Unity  of  aim,  aided  by  ordinary  vigour  of  character,  will  gen- 
erally insure  perseverance  ; a quality  not  ranked  among  the 
cardinal  virtues,  but  as  essential  as  any  of  them  to  the  proper 
conduct  of  life.  Nine-tenths  of  the  miseries  and  vices  of 
mankind  proceed  from  idleness  : with  men  of  quick  minds,  to 
whom  it  is  especially  pernicious,  this  habit  is  commonly  the 
fruit  of  many  disappointments  and  schemes  oft  baffled  ; and 
men  fail  in  their  schemes  not  so  much  from  the  want  of 
strength  as  from  the  ill-direction  of  it.  The  weakest  living 
creature,  by  concentrating  his  powers  on  a single  object,  can 
accomplish  something  : the  strongest,  by  dispersing  his  over 
many,  may  fail  to  accomplish  anything.  The  drop,  by  con- 
tinual falling,  bores  its  passage  through  the  hardest  rock  ; the 
hasty  torrent  rushes  over  it  with  hideous  uproar,  and  leaves 
no  trace  behind.  New  men  have  applied  more  steadfastly  to 
the  business  of  their  life,  or  been  more  resolutely  diligent 
than  Schiller. 

The  profession  of  theatrical  poet  was,  in  his  present  cir- 
cumstances, particularly  favourable  to  the  maintenance  of  this 
wholesome  state  of  mind.  In  the  fulfilment  of  its  duties, 
while  he  gratified  his  own  dearest  predilections,  he  was  like- 
wise warmly  seconded  by  the  prevailing  taste  of  the  public. 
The  interest  excited  by  the  stage,  and  the  importance  attached 
to  everything  connected  with  it,  are  greater  in  Germany  than 
in  any  other  part  of  Europe,  not  excepting  France,  or  even 
Paris.  Noi',  as  in  Paris,  is  the  stage  in  German  towns  con- 
sidered merely  as  a mental  recreation,  an  elegant  and  pleasant 
mode  of  filling  up  the  vacancy  of  tedious  evenings  : in  Ger- 


SCHILLER  AT  MANNHEIM. 


51 


many,  it  has  the  advantage  of  being-  comparatively  new  ; and 
its  exhibitions  are  directed  to  a class  of  minds  attuned  to  a 
far  higher  pitch  of  feeling.  The  Germans  are  accused  of  a 
proneness  to  amplify  and  systematise,  to  admire  with  excess, 
and  to  find,  in  whatever  calls  forth  their  applause,  an  epitome 
of  a thousand  excellencies,  which  no  one  else  can  discover  in  it. 
Their  discussions  on  the  theatre  do  certainly  give  colour  to 
this  charge.  Nothing,  at  least  to  an  English  reader,  can  ap- 
pear more  disproportionate  than  the  influence  they  impute 
to  the  stage,  and  the  quantity  of  anxious  investigation  they 
devote  to  its  concerns. 

With  us,  the  question  about  the  moral  tendency  of  theatri- 
cal amusements  is  now  very  generally  consigned  to  the  medita- 
tion of  debating  clubs,  and  speculative  societies  of  young  men 
under  age  ; with  our  neighbours  it  is  a weighty  subject  of  in- 
quiry for  minds  of  almost  the  highest  order.  With  us,  the 
stage  is  considered  as  a harmless  pastime,  wholesome  because 
it  occupies  the  man  by  occupying  his  mental,  not  his  sensiial 
faculties  ; one  of  the  many  departments  of  fictitious  represen- 
tation ; perhaps  the  most  exciting,  but  also  the  most  transitory  ; 
sometimes  hurtful,  generally  beneficial,  just  as  the  rest  are  ; 
entitled  to  no  peculiar  regard,  and  far  inferior  in  its  effect  to 
many  others  which  have  no  special  apparatus  for  their  applica- 
tion. The  Germans,  on  the  contrary,  talk  of  it  as  of  some- 
new  organ  for  refining  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men  ; a sort 
of  lay  pulpit,  the  worthy  ally  of  the  sacred  one,  and  perhaps 
even  better  fitted  to  exalt  some  of  our  nobler  feelings  ; because 
its  objects  are  much  more  varied,  and  because  it  speaks  to  us 
through  many  avenues,  addressing  the  eye  by  its  pomp  and 
decorations,  the  ear  by  its  harmonies,  and  the  heart  and  im- 
agination by  its  poetical  embellishments,  and  heroic  acts  and 
sentiments.  Influences  still  more  mysterious  are  hinted  at,  if 
not  directly  announced.  An  idea  seems  to  lurk  obscurely  at 
the  bottom  of  certain  of  their  abstruse  and  elaborate  specu- 
lations, as  if  the  stage  were  destined  to  replace  some  of  those 
sublime  illusions  which  the  progress  of.  reason  is  fast  driving 
from  the  earth  ; as  if  its  pageantry,  and  allegories,  and  figu- 
rative shadowing-forth  of  things,  might  supply  men’s  nature 


52  THE  LIFE  QF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 

■with  much  of  that  quickening  nourishment  which  we  once  de- 
rived from  the  superstitions  and  mythologies  of  darker  ages. 
Viewing  the  matter  in  this  light,  they  proceed  in  the  manage- 
ment of  it  with  all  due  earnestness.  Hence  their  minute  and 
painful  investigations  of  the  origin  of  dramatic  emotion,  of  its 
various  kinds  and  degrees  ; their  subdivisions  of  romantic  and 
heroic  and  romantico-heroic,  and  the  other  endless  jargon 
that  encumbers  their  critical  writings.  The  zeal  of  the  peo- 
ple corresponds  with  that  of  their  instructors.  The  want  of 
more  important  public  interests  naturally  contributes  still 
farther  to  the  prominence  of  this,  the  discussion  of  which  is 
not  forbidden,  or  sure  to  be  without  effect.  Literature  at-  . 
tracts  nearly  all  the  powerful  thought  that  circulates  in  Ger- 
many ; and  the  theatre  is  the  great  nucleus  of  German  litera- 
ture. 

It  was  to  be  expected  that  Schiller  would  participate  in  a 
feeling  so  universal,  and  so  accordant  with  his  own  wishes 
and  prospects.  The  theatre  of  Mannheim  was  at  that  period 
one  of  the  best  in  Germany  ; he  felt  proud  of  the  share  which 
he  had  in  conducting  it,  and  exerted  himself  with  his  usual 
alacrity  in  promoting  its  various  objects.  Connected  with  the 
duties  of  his  office,  was  the  more  personal  duty  of  improving 
his  own  faculties,  and  extending  his  knowledge  of  the  art 
which  he  had  engaged  to  cultivate.  He  read  much,  and  stud- 
ied more.  The  perusal  of  Corneille,  Racine,  Voltaire,  and 
the  other  French  classics,  could  not  be  without  advantage  to 
one  whose  exuberance  of  power,  and  defect  of  taste,  were  the 
only  faults  he  had  ever  been  reproached  with  ; and  the 
sounder  ideas  thus  acquired,  he  was  constantly  bus}-  in  ex- 
emplifying by  attempts  of  his  own.  His  projected  transla- 
tions from  Shakspeare  and  the  French  were  postponed  for  the 
present : indeed,  except  in  the  instance  of  Macbeth,  they  were 
never  finished:  his  Gonradin  von  Schwaben,  and  a second  part 
of  the  Robbers,  were  likewise  abandoned  : but  a number  of 
minor  undertakings  sufficiently  evinced  his  diligence  : and 
Bon  Carlos,  which  he  had  now  seriously  commenced,  was  oc- 
cupying all  his  poetical  faculties. 

Another  matter  he  had  much  at  heart  was  the  setting  forth 


SCHILLER  AT  MANNHEUL- 


53 


of  a periodical  -work,  devoted  to  the  concerns  of  tlie  stage. 
In  this  enterprise,  Scliiller  had  expected  the  patronage  and 
co-operation  of  the  German  Society,  of  which  he  was  a mem- 
ber. It  did  not  strike  him  that  any  other  motive  than  a 
genuine  love  of  art,  and  zeal  for  its  advancement,  could  have 
induced  men  to  join  such  a body.  But  the  zeal  of  the  Ger- 
man Society  was  more  according  to  knowledge  than  that  of 
their  new  associate  : they  listened  with  approving  ear  to  his 
vivid  representations,  and  wide-spreading  projects,  but  de- 
clined taking  any  part  in  the  execution  of  them.  D alb  erg  alone 
seemed  willing  to  support  him.  Mortified,  but  not  disheart- 
ened by  their  coldness,  Schiller  reckoned  up  his  means  of  suc- 
ceeding without  them.  The  plan  of  his  work  was  contracted 
within  narrower  limits  ; he  determined  to  commence  it  on 
his  own  resources.  After  much  delay,  the  first  number  of  the 
Eheinische  Thalia,  enriched  by  three  acts  of  Don  Carlos,  ap- 
peared in  1785.  It  was  continued  with  one  short  interrup- 
tion, till  1794  The  main  purpose  of  the  work  being  the 
furtherance  of  dramatic  art,  and  the  extension  and  improve- 
ment of  the  public  taste  for  such  entertainments,  its  chief 
contents  are  easy  to  be  guessed  at ; theatrical  criticisms, 
essays  on  the  nature  of  the  stage,  its  history  in  various  coun- 
tries, its  moral  and  intellectual  effects,  and  the  best  methods 
of  producing  them.  A part  of  the  publication  was  open  to 
poetry  and  miscellaneous  discussion. 

Meditating  so  many  subjects  so  assiduously,  Schiller  knew 
not  what  it  was  to  be  unemployed.  Yet  the  task  of  compos- 
ing dramatic  varieties,  of  training  players,  and  deliberating  in 
the  theatrical  senate,  or  even  of  expressing  philosophically  his 
opinions  on  these  points,  could  not  wholly  occupy  such  a 
mind  as  his.  There  were  times  when,  notwithstanding  his 
own  prior  habits,  and  all  the  vaunting  of  dramaturgists,  he 
felt  that  their  scenic  glories  were  but  an  empty  show,  a lying 
refuge,  where  there  was  no  abiding  rest  for  the  soul.  His 
eager  spirit  turned  away  from  their  paltry  world  of  paste- 
board, to  dwell  among  the  deep  and  serious  interests  of  the 
living  world  of  men.  The  Thalia,  besides  its  dramatic  specu- 
lations and  performances,  contains  several  of  his  poems,  which 


54 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


indicate  that  his  attention,  though  officially  directed  else- 
whither, was  alive  to  all  the  common  concerns  of  humanity ; 
that  he  looked  on  life  not  more  as  a writer  than  as  a man. 
The  Laura,  whom  he  celebrates,  was  not  a vision  of  the  mind  ; 
but  a living  fair  one,  whom  he  saw  daily,  and  loved  in  the 
secrecy  of  his  heart.  His  Gruppe  aus  dem  Tartarus  (Group 
from  Tartarus),  his  Kmdesmorderinn  (Infanticide),  are  prod- 
ucts of  a mind  brooding  over  dark  and  mysterious  things. 
While  improving  in  the  art  of  poetry,  in  the  capability  of 
uttering  his  thoughts  in  the  form  best  adapted  to  express 
them,  he  was  likewise  improving  in  the  more  valuable  art  of 
thought  itself  ; and  applying  it  not  only  to  the  business  of 
the  imagination,  but  also  to  those  profound  and  solemn  in- 
quiries, which  every  reasonable  mortal  is  called  to  engage 
with. 

In  particular,  the  Philosophische  Briefe,  written  about  this 
period,  exhibits  Schiller  in  a new,  and  to  us  more  interesting 
point  of  view.  Julius  and  Raphael  are  the  emblems  of  his 
own  fears  and  his  own  hopes  ; their  Philosophic  Letters  unfold 
to  us  many  a gloomy  conflict  that  had  passed  in  the  secret 
chambers  of  their  author’s  soul.  Sceptical  doubts  on  the  most 
important  of  all  subjects  were  natural  to  such  an  understand- 
ing as  Schiller’s  ; but  his  heart  was  not  of  a temper  to  rest 
satisfied  with  doubts  ; or  to  draw  a sorry  compensation  for 
them  from  the  pride  of  superior  acuteness,  or  the  vulgar  pleas- 
ure of  producing  an  effect  on  others  by  assailing  their  dearest 
and  holiest  persuasions.  With  him  the  question  about  the 
essence  of  our  being  was  not  a subject  for  shallow  speculation, 
charitably  named  scientific ; still  less  for  vain  jangling  and 
polemical  victories  : it  was  a fearful  mystery,  which  it  con- 
cerned all  the  deepest  sympathies  and  most  sublime  anticipa- 
tions of  his  mind  to  have  explained.  It  is  no  idle  curiosity, 
but  the  shuddering  voice  of  nature  that  asks  : ‘ If  our  happi- 
ness depend  on  the  harmonious  play  of  the  sensorium  ; if  our 
conviction  may  waver  with  the  beating  of  the  pulse  ? ’ What 
Schiller’s  ultimate  opinions  on  these  points  were,  we  are  no- 
where specially  informed.  That  his  heart  was  orthodox,  that 
the  whole  universe  was  for  him  a temple,  in  which  he  offered 


-SCHILLER  AT  MANNHEIM. 


55 


up  the  continual  sacrifice  of  devout  adoration,  his  works  and 
life  bear  noble  testimony  ; yet,  here  and  there,  his  fairest 
visions  seem  as  if  suddenly  sicklied  over  with  a pale  cast  of 
doubt ; a withering  shadow  seems  to  flit  across  his  soul,  and 
chill  it  in  his  loftiest  moods.  The  dark  condition  of  the  man 
who  longs  to  believe  and  longs  in  vain,  he  can  represent  with 
a verisimilitude  and  touching  beauty,  which  shows  it  to  have 
been  familiar  to  himself.  Apart  from  their  ingenuity,  there 
is  a certain  severe  pathos  in  some  of  these  passages,  which 
affects  us  with  a peculiar  emotion.  The  hero  of  another  work 
is  made  to  express  himself  in  these  terms  : 

‘ What  went  before  and  what  will  follow  me,  I regard  as 
two  black  impenetrable  curtains,  which  hang  down  at  the  two 
extremities  of  human  life,  and  which  no  living  man  has  yet 
drawn  aside.  Many  hundreds  of  generations  have  already 
stood  before  them  with  their  torches,  guessing  anxiously  what 
lies  behind.  On  the  curtain  of  Futurity,  many  see  their  own 
shadows,  the  forms  of  their  passions  enlarged  and  put  in  mo- 
tion ; they  shrink  in  terror  at  this  image  of  themselves. 
Poets,  philosophers,  and  founders  of  states,  have  painted  this 
curtain  with  their  dreams,  more  smiling  or  more  dark,  as  the 
sky  above  them  was  cheerful  or  gloomy ; and  their  pictures 
deceive  the  eye  when  viewed  from  a distance.  Many  jugglers 
too  make  profit  of  this  our  universal  curiosity : by  their 
strange  mummeries,  they  have  set  the  outstretched  fancy  in 
amazement.  A deep  silence  reigns  behind  this  curtain  ; no 
one  once  within  it  will  answer  those  he  has  left  without ; all 
you  can  hear  is  a hollow  echo  of  your  own  question,  as  if  you 
shouted  into  a chasm.  To  the  other  side  of  this  curtain  we 
are  all  bound  : men  grasp  hold  of  it  as  they  pass,  trembling, 
uncertain  who  may  stand  within  it  to  receive  them,  quid  sit  id 
quod  tantum  morituri  vident.  Some  unbelieving  people  there 
have  been,  vrho  have  asserted  that  this  curtain  did  but  make 
a mockery  of  men,  and  that  nothing  could  be  seen  because 
nothing  was  behind  it  : but  to  convince  these  people,  the  rest 
have  seized  them,  and  hastily  pushed  them  in.’  1 

The  Philosophic  Letters  paint  the  struggles  of  an  ardent, 
1 Her  Gehter seller,  Schiller’s  Werke,  B.  iv.  p.  350. 


5G 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


enthusiastic,  inquisitive  spirit  to  deliver  itself  from  the  harass- 
ing uncertainties,  to  penetrate  the  dread  obscurity,  -which 
overhangs  the  lot  of  man.  The  first  faint  scruples  of  the 
Doubter  are  settled  by  the  maxim  : ‘ Believe  nothing  but  thy 
own  reason  ; there  is  nothing  holier  than  truth. 5 But  Beason, 
employed  in  such  an  inquiry,  can  do  but  half  the  work  : she 
is  like  the  Conjurer  that  has  pronounced  the  spell  of  invoca- 
tion, but  has  forgot  the  counter-word  ; spectres  and  shadowy 
forms  come  crowding  at  his  summons  ; in  endless  multitudes 
they  press  and  hover  round  his  magic  circle,  and  the  terror- 
struck  Black-artist  cannot  lay  them.  Julius  finds  that  on  re- 
jecting the  primary  dictates  of  feeling,  the  system  of  dogmat- 
ical belief,  he  is  driven  to  the  system  of  materialism.  Recoil- 
ing in  horror  from  this  dead  and  cheerless  creed,  he  toils  and 
wanders  in  the  labyrinths  of  pantheism,  seeking  comfort  and 
rest,  but  finding  none  ; till,  baffled  and  tired,  and  sick  at 
heart,  he  seems  inclined,  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  to  renounce 
the  dreary  problem  altogether,  to  shut  the  eyes  of  his  too 
keen  understanding,  and  take  refuge  under  the  shade  of 
Revelation.  The  anxieties  and  errors  of  Julius  are  described 
in  glowing  terms  ; his  intellectual  subtleties  are  mingled  with 
the  eloquence  of  intense  feeling.  The  answers  of  his  friend 
are  in  a similar  style  ; intended  not  more  to  convince  than  to 
persuade.  The  whole  work  is  full  of  passion  as  well  as  acute- 
ness ; the  impress  of  a philosophic  and  poetic  mind  striving 
with  all  its  vast  energies  to  make  its  poetry  and  its  philosophy 
agree.  Considered  as  exhibiting  the  state  of  Schiller’s 
thoughts  at  this  period,  it  possesses  a peculiar  interest.  In 
other  respects  there  is  little  in  it  to  allure  us.  It  is  short  and 
incomplete  ; there  is  little  originality  in  the  opinions  it  ex- 
presses, and  none  in  the  form  of  its  composition.  As  an 
argument  on  either  side,  it  is  too  rhetorical  to  be  of  much 
weight ; it  abandons  the  inquiry  when  its  difficulties  and  its 
value  are  becoming  greatest,  and  breaks  off  abruptly  without 
arriving  at  any  conclusion.  Schiller  has  surveyed  the  dark 
Serbonian  bog  of  Infidelity  : but  he  has  made  no  causeway 
through  it : the  Philosophic  Letters  are  a fragment. 

Amid  employments  so  varied,  with  health,  and  freedom 


SCHILLER  AT  MANNHEIM. 


57 


from  the  coarser  hardships  of  life,  Schiller’s  feelings  might  be 
earnest,  but  could  scarcely  be  unhappy.  His  mild  and  amia- 
ble manners,  united  to  such  • goodness  of  heart,  and  such 
height  of  accomplishment,  endeared  him  to  all  classes  of 
society  in  Mannheim  ; Dalberg  was  still  his  warm  friend  ; 
Schwann  and  Laura  he  conversed  with  daily.  His  genius 
was  fast  enlarging  its  empire,  and  fast  acquiring  more  com- 
plete command  of  it ; he  was  loved  and  admired,  rich  in  the 
enjoyment  of  present  activity  and  fame,  and  richer  in  the 
hope  of  what  was  coming.  Yet  in  proportion  as  his  faculties 
and  his  prospects  expanded,  he  began  to  Hew  his  actual 
situation  with  less  and  less  contentment.  For  a season  after 
his  arrival,  it  was  natural  that  Mannheim  should  appear  to 
him  as  land  does  to  the  shipwrecked  mariner,  full  of  gladness 
and  beauty,  merely  because  it  is  laud.  It  was  equally  natural 
that,  after  a time,  this  sentiment  should  abate  and  pass  away  ; 
that  his  place  of  refuge  should  appear  but  as  other  places, 
only  with  its  difficulties  and  discomforts  aggravated  by  their 
nearness.  His  revenue  was  inconsiderable  here,  and  depend- 
ent upon  accidents  for  its  continuance  ; a share  in  directing 
the  concerns  of  a provincial  theatre,  a task  not  without  its 
irritations,  was  little  adequate  to  satisfy  the  wishes  of  a mind 
like  his.  Schiller  longed  for  a wider  sphere  of  action  ; the 
world  was  all  before  him  ; he  lamented  that  he  should  still  be 
lingering  on  the  mere  outskirts  of  its  business  ; that  he  should 
waste  so  much  time  and  effort  in  contending  with  the  irascible 
vanity  of  players,  or  watching  the  ebbs  and  flows  of  public 
taste  ; in  resisting  small  grievances,  and  realising  a small  re- 
sult. He  determined  upon  leaving  Mannheim.  If  destitute 
of  other  holds,  his  prudence  might  still  have  taught  him  to 
smother  this  unrest,  the  never-failing  inmate  of  every  human 
breast,  and  patiently  continue  where  he  was  : but  various  re- 
sources remained  to  him,  and  various  hopes  invited  him  from 
other  quarters.  The  produce  of  his  works,  or  even  the  exer- 
cise of  his  profession,  would  insure  him  a competence  any- 
where ; the  former  had  already  gained  him  distinction  and 
goodwill  in  every  part  of  Germany.  The  first  number  of  his 
Thalia  had  arrived  at  the  court  of  Hessen-Durmstadt  while 


58 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


the  Duke  of  Sachsen- Weimar  happened  to  be  there : the 
perusal  of  the  first  acts  of  Don  Carlos  had  introduced  the 
author  to  that  enlightened  prince,  who  expressed  his  satisfac- 
tion and  respect  by  transmitting  him  the  title  of  Counsellor. 
A less  splendid  but  not  less  truthful  or  pleasing  testimonial 
had  lately  reached  him  from  Leipzig. 

‘ Some  days  ago,’  he  writes,  ‘ I met  with  a very  flattering 
and  agreeable  surprise.  There  came  to  me,  out  of  Leipzig, 
from  unknown  hands,  four  parcels,  and  as  many  letters,  writ- 
ten with  the  highest  enthusiasm  towards  me,  and  overflowing 
with  poetical  devotion.  They  were  accompanied  by  four 
miniature  portraits,  two  of  which  are  of  very  beautiful  young 
ladies,  and  by  a pocket-book  sewed  in  the  finest  taste.  Such 
a present,  from  people  who  can  have  no  interest  in  it,  but  to 
let  me  know  that  they  wish  me  well,  and  thank  me  for  some 
cheerful  hours,  I prize  extremely  ; the  loudest  applause  of  the 
world  could  scarcely  have  flattered  me  so  agreeably.’ 

Perhaps  this  incident,  trifling  as  it  was,  might  not  be  with- 
out effect  in  deciding  the  choice  of  his  future  residence. 
Leipzig  had  the  more  substantial  charm  of  being  a centre  of 
activity  and  commerce  of  all  sorts,  that  of  literature  not  ex- 
cepted ; and  it  contained  some  more  effectual  friends  of  Schil- 
ler than  these  his  unseen  admirers.  He  resolved  on  going 
thither.  His  wishes  and  intentions  are  minutely  detailed  to 
Huber,  his  chief  intimate  at  Leipzig,  in  a letter  written 
shortly  before  his  removal.  We  translate  it  for  the  hints  it 
gives  us  of  Schiller’s  tastes  and  habits  at  that  period  of  his 
history. 

‘ This,  then,  is  probably  the  last  letter  I shall  write  to  you 
from  Mannheim.  The  time  from  the  fifteenth  of  March  has 
hung  upon  my  hands,  like  a trial  for  life  ; and,  thank  Heaven  ! 
I am  now  ten  whole  days  nearer  you.  And  now,  my  good 
friend,  as  you  have  already  consented  to  take  my  entire  con- 
fidence upon  your  shoulders,  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  leading 
you  info  the  interior  of  my  domestic  wishes. 

‘ In  my  new  establishment  at  Leipzig,  I purpose  to  avoid 
one  error,  which  has  plagued  me  a great  deal  here  in  Mann- 
heim. It  is  this : No  longer  to  conduct  my  own  housekeep- 


SCHILLER  AT  MANNHEIM. 


59 


ing,  and  also  no  longer  to  live  alone.  The  former  is  not  by 
any  means  a business  I excel  in.  It  costs  me  less  to  execute 
a whole  conspiracy,  in  five  acts,  than  to  settle  my  domestic 
arrangements  for  a week  ; and  poetry,  you  yourself  know,  is 
but  a dangerous  assistant  in  calculations  of  economy.  My 
mind  is  drawn  different  ways  ; I fall  headlong  out  of  my  ideal 
world,  if  a holed  stocking  remind  me  of  the  real  world. 

‘ As  to  the  other  point,  I require  for  my  private  happiness 
to  have  a true  warm  friend  that  would  be  ever  at  my  hand, 
like  my  better  angel ; to  whom  I could  communicate  my 
nascent  ideas  in  the  very  act  of  conceiving  them,  not  needing 
to  transmit  them,  as  at  present,  by  letters  or  long  visits.  Nay, 
when  this  friend  of  mine  lives  beyond  the  four  corners  of  my 
house,  the  trifling  circumstance,  that  in  order  to  reach  him 
I must  cross  the  street,  dress  myself,  and  so  forth,  will  of 
itself  destroy  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment,  and  the  train  of 
my  thoughts  is  torn  in  pieces  before  I see  him. 

‘ Observe  you,  my  good  fellow,  these  are  petty  matters  ; 
but  petty  matters  often  bear  the  weightiest  result  in  the  man- 
agement of  life.  I know  myself  better  than  perhaps  a thou- 
sand mothers’  sons  know  themselves  ; I understand  how  much, 
and  frequently  how  little,  I require  to  be  completely  happy. 
The  question  therefore  is  : Can  I get  this  wish  of  my  heart 
fulfilled  in  Leipzig  ? 

‘ If  it  were  possible  that  I could  make  a lodgment  with  you, 
all  my  cares  on  that  head  would  be  removed.  I am  no  bad 
neighbour,  as  perhaps  you  imagine  ; I have  pliance  enough  to 
suit  myself  to  another,  and  here  and  there  withal  a certain 
knack,  as  Yorick  says,  at  helping  to  make  him  merrier  and 
better.  Failing  this,  if  you  could  find  me  any  person  that 
would  undertake  my  small  economy,  everything  would  still 
be  well. 

‘ I want  nothing  but  a bedroom,  which  might  also  be  my 
working  room  ; and  another  chamber  for  receiving  visits. 
The  house-gear  necessary  for  me  are  a good  chest  of  drawers, 
a desk,  a bed  and  sofa,  a table,  and  a few  chairs.  With  these 
conveniences,  my  accommodation  were  sufficiently  provided 
for. 


60 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER 


‘ I cannot  live  on  the  ground-floor,  nor  close  by  the  ridge- 
tile  ; also  my  windows  positively  must  not  look  into  the  church- 
yard. I love  men,  and  therefore  like  their  bustle.  If  I can- 
not so  arrange  it  that  we  (meaning  the  quintuple  alliance  ’) 
shall  mess  together,  I would  engage  at  the  table  d’hote  of  the 
inn ; for  I had  rather  fast  than  eat  without  company,  large,  or 
else  particularly  good. 

‘ I write  all  this  to  you,  my  dearest  friend,  to  forewarn  you 
of  my  silly  tastes  ; and,  at  all  events,  that  I may  put  it  in  your 
power  to  take  some  preparatory  steps,  in  one  place  or  another, 
for  my  settlement.  My  demands  are,  in  truth,  confoundedly 
na'ive,  but  your  goodness  has  spoiled  me. 

‘ The  first  part  of  the  Thalia  must  already  be  in  your  pos- 
session ; the  doom  of  Carlos  wall  ere  now  be  pronounced. 
Yet  I will  take  it  from  you  orally.  Had  we  five  not  been  ac- 
quainted, who  knows  but  we  might  have  become  so  on  occa- 
sion of  this  very  Carlos  ? ’ 

Schiller  rvent  accordingly  to  Leipzig ; though  whether 
Huber  received  him,  or  he  found  his  humble  necessaries  else- 
where, we  have  not  learned.  He  arrived  in  the  end  of  March 
1785,  after  eighteen  months’  residence  at  Mannheim.  The  re- 
ception he  met  with,  his  amusements,  occupations,  and  pros- 
pects are  described  in  a letter  to  the  Kammerratk  Schwann, 
a bookseller  at  Mannheim,  alluded  to  above.  Except  Eal- 
berg,  Schwann  had  been  his  earliest  friend  ; he  was  now  en- 
deared to  him  by  subsequent  familiarity,  not  of  letters  and 
writing,  but  of  daily  intercourse  ; and  what  wras  more  than 
all,  by  the  circumstance  that  Laura  was  his  daughter.  The 
letter,  it  will  be  seen,  wras  written  with  a weightier  object 
than  the  pleasure  of  describing  Leipzig  : it  is  dated  21th 
April  1785. 

‘ You  have  an  indubitable  right  to  be  angry  at  my  long 
silence  ; yet  I know  your  goodness  too  well  to  be  in  doubt 
that  you  will  pardon  me. 

‘ When  a man,  unskilled  as  I am  in  the  busy  world,  visits 
Leipzig  for  the  first  time,  during  the  Fair,  it  is,  if  not  excus- 
able, at  least  intelligible,  that  among  the  multitude  of  strange 
1 Who  the  other  three  were  is  nowhere  particularly  mentioned. 


SCHILLER  AT  LEIPZIG. 


61 


thing's  running  through  his  head,  he  should  for  a few  days 
lose  recollection  of  himself.  Such,  my  dearest  friend,  has  till 
today  been  nearly  my  case  ; and  even  now  I have  to  steal  from 
many  avocations  the  pleasing  moments  which,  in  idea,  I mean 
to  spend  with  you  at  Mannheim. 

‘ Our  journey  hither,  of  which  Herr  Gotz  will  give  you  a 
circumstantial  description,  was  the  most  dismal  you  can  well 
imagine  ; Bog,  Snow  and  Bain  were  the  three  wicked  foes  that 
by  turns  assailed  us ; and  though  we  used  an  additional  pair 
of  horses  all  the  way  from  Yach,  yet  our  travelling,  which 
should  have  ended  on  Friday,  was  spun-out  till  Sunday.  It 
is  universally  maintained  that  the  Fair  has  visibly  suffered  by 
the  shocking  state  of  the  roads  ; at  all  events,  even  in  my 
eyes,  the  crowd  of  sellers  and  buyers  is  far  beneath  the  de- 
scription I used  to  get  of  it  in  the  Empire. 

‘ In  the  very  first  week  of  my  residence  here,  I made  in- 
numerable new  acquaintances  ; among  whom,  Weisse,  Oeser, 
Hiller,  Zollikofer,  Professor  Huber,  Jiinger,  the  famous  actor 
Beinike,  a few  merchants’  families  of  the  place,  and  some 
Berlin  people,  are  the  most  interesting.  During  Fair- time, 
as  you  know  well,  a person  cannot  get  the  full  enjoyment  of 
any  one  ; our  attention  to  the  individual  is  dissipated  in  the 
noisy  multitude. 

‘ My  most  pleasant  recreation  hitherto  has  been  to  visit 
Bidder's  coffee-house,  where  I constantly  find  half  the  vjorld 
of  Leipzig  assembled,  and  extend  my  acquaintance  with 
foreigners  and  natives. 

‘ From  various  quarters  I have  had  some  alluring  invitations 
to  Berlin  and  Dresden  ; which  it  will  be  difficult  for  me  to 
withstand.  It  is  quite  a peculiar  case,  my  friend,  to  have 
a literary  name.  The  few  men  of  worth  and  consideration 
who  offer  you  their  intimacy  on  that  score,  and  whose  regard 
is  really  worth  coveting,  are  too  disagreeably  counterweighed 
by  the  baleful  swarm  of  creatures  who  keep  humming  round 
you,  like  so  many  flesh-flies  ; gape  at  you  as  if  you  were  a 
monster,  and  condescend  moreover,  on  the  strength  of  one  or 
two  blotted  sheets,  to  present  themselves  as  colleagues.  Many 
people  cannot  understand  how  a man  that  wrote  the  Robbers 


62 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


should  look  like  another  son  of  Adana.  Close-cut  hair,  at  the 
very  least,  and  postillion’s  boots,  and  a hunter’s  whip,  were 
expected. 

‘ Many  families  are  in  the  habit  here  of  spending  the  sum- 
mer in  some  of  the  adjacent  villages,  and  so  enjoying  the 
pleasures  of  the  country.  I mean  to  pass  a few  months  in 
Gohlis,  which  lies  only  a quarter  of  a league  from  Leipzig, 
with  a very  pleasant  walk  leading  to  it,  through  the  Rosenthal. 
Here  I purpose  being  very  diligent,  working  at  Carlos  and  the 
Thalia  ; that  so,  which  perhaps  will  please  you  more  than 
anything,  I may  gradually  and  silently.  return  to  my  medical 
profession.  I long  impatiently  for  that  epoch  of  my  life, 
when  my  prospects  may  be  settled  and  determined,  when  I 
may  follow  my  darling  pursuits  merely  for  my  own  pleasure. 
At  one  time  I studied  medicine  con  amove  ; could  I not  do  it 
now  with  still  greater  keenness  ? 

‘This,  my  best  friend,  might  of  itself  convince  you  of  the 
truth  and  firmness  of  my  purpose  ; but  what  should  offer 
you  the  most  complete  security  on  that  point,  what  must 
banish  all  your  doubts  about  my  steadfastness,  I have  yet 
kept  secret.  Now  or  never  I must  speak  it  out.  Distance 
alone  gives  me  courage  to  express  the  wish  of  my  heart. 
Frequently  enough,  when  I used  to  have  the  happiness  of  being 
near  you,  has  this  confession  hovered  on  my  tongue  ; but  my 
confidence  always  forsook  me,  wfken  I tried  to  utter  it.  My 
best  friend  ! Your  goodness,  your  affection,  your  generosity 
of  heart,  have  encouraged  me  in  a hope  which  I can  justify 
by  nothing  but  the  friendship  and  respect  you  have  always 
shown  me.  My  free,  unconstrained  access  to  your  house 
afforded  me  the  opportunity  of  intimate  acquaintance  with 
your  amiable  daughter  ; and  the  frank,  kind  treatment  with 
which  both  you  and  she  honoured  me,  tempted  my  heart  to 
entertain  the  bold  wish  of  becoming  your  son.  My  prospects 
have  hitherto  been  dim  and  vague  ; they  now  begin  to  alter 
in  my  favour.  I will  strive  with  more  continuous  vigour 
when  the  goal  is  clear  ; do  you  decide  whether  I can  reach 
it,  when  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  supports  my  zeal. 

‘ Yet  two  short  years  and  my  whole  fortune  will  be  deter- 


SCHILLER  AT  LEIPZIG.  • 


63 


mined.  I feel  liow  much  I ask,  how  boldly,  and  with  how 
little  right  I ask  it.  A year  is  past  since  this  thought  took 
possession  of  my  soul ; but  my  esteem  for  you  and  your  ex- 
cellent daughter  was  too  high  to  allow  room  for  a wish,  which 
at  that  time  I could  found  on  no  solid  basis.  I made  it  a 
duty  with  myself  to  visit  your  house  less  frequently,  and  to 
dissipate  such  feelings  by  absence  ; but  this  poor  artifice  did 
not  avail  me. 

‘ The  Duke  of  Weimar  was  the  first  person  to  whom  I dis- 
closed myself.  His  anticipating  goodness,  and  the  declaration 
that  he  took  an  interest  in  my  happiness,  induced  me  to  con- 
fess that  this  happiness  depended  on  a union  with  your  noble 
daughter  ; and  he  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  my  choice. 
I have  reason  to  hope  that  he  will  do  more,  should  it  come  to 
the  point  of  completing  my  happiness  by  this  union. 

‘ I shall  add  nothing  farther  : I know  well  that  hundreds  of 
others  might  afford  your  daughter  a more  splendid  fate  than 
I at  this  moment  can  promise  her  ; but  that  any  other  heart 
can  be  more  worthy  of  her,  I venture  to  deny.  Your  de- 
cision, which  I look  for  with  impatience  and  fearful  expecta- 
tion, will  determine  whether  I may  venture  to  write  in  person 
to  your  daughter.  Fare  you  well,  forever  loved  by — Your — 

‘Fkiedkich  Schillee.’ 

Concerning  this  proposal,  we  have  no  farther  information 
to  communicate  ; except  that  the  parties  did  not  marry,  and 
did  not  cease  being  friends.  That  Schiller  obtained  the  per- 
mission he  concludes  with  requesting,  appears  from  other 
sources.  Three  years  afterwards,  in  writing  to  the  same 
person,  he  alludes  emphatically  to  his  eldest  daughter  ; and 
what  is  more  ominous,  apologises  for  his  silence  to  her. 
Schiller’s  situation  at  this  period  was  such  as  to  preclude  the 
idea  of  present  marriage  ; perhaps,  in  the  prospect  of  it, 
Laura  and  he  commenced  corresponding  ; and  before  the 
wished-for  change  of  fortune  had  arrived,  both  of  them, 
attracted  to  other  objects,  had  lost  one  another  in  the  vortex 
of  life,  and  ceased  to  regard  their  finding  one  another  as 
desirable. 


64 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Schiller’s  medical  project,  like  many  which  he  formed,  never 
came  to  any  issue.  In  moments  of  anxiety,  amid  the  fluctua- 
tions of  his  lot,  the  thought  of  this  profession  floated  through 
his  mind,  as  of  a distant  stronghold,  to  which,  in  time  of  need, 
he  might  retire.  But  literature  was  too  intimately  interwoven 
with  his  dispositions  and  his  habits  to  be  seriously  interfered 
with  ; it  was  only  at  brief  intervals  that  the  pleasure  of  pur- 
suing it  exclusively  seemed  overbalanced  by  its  inconveniences. 
He  needed  a more  certain  income  than  poetry  could  yield 
him  ; but  he  wished  to  derive  it  from  some  pursuit  less  alien 
to  his  darling  study.  Medicine  he  never  practised  after  leav- 
ing Stuttgard. 

In  the  mean  time,  whatever  he  might  afterwards  resolve 
on,  he  determined  to  complete  his  Carlos,  the  half  of  which, 
composed  a considerable  time  before,  had  lately  been  running 
the  gauntlet  of  criticism  in  the  Thalia d With  this  for  his 
chief  occupation,  Golilis  or  Leipzig  for  his  residence,  and  a 
circle  of  chosen  friends  for  his  entertainment,  Schiller’s  days 
went  happily  along.  His  Lied  an  die  Freude  (Song  to  Joy), 
one  of  his  most  spirited  and  beautiful  lyrical  productions, 
was  composed  here  : it  bespeaks  a mind  impetuous  even  in 
its  gladness,  and  overflowing  with  warm  and  earnest  emo- 
tions. 

But  the  love  of  change  is  grounded  on  the  difference  be- 
tween anticipation  and  reality,  and  dwells  with  man  till  the' 
age  when  habit  becomes  stronger  than  desire,  or  anticipation 
ceases  to  be  hope.  Schiller  did  not  find  that  his  establish- 
ment at  Leipzig,  though  pleasant  while  it  lasted,  would  realise 
his  ulterior  views : he  yielded  to  some  of  his  1 alluring  invi- 
tations,’ and  went  to  Dresden  in  the  end  of  summer.  Dresden 
contained  many  persons  who  admired  him,  more  who  admired 
his  fame,  and  a few  who  loved  himself.  Among  the  latter, 
the  Appellationsrath  Korner  deserves  especial  mention.2  Schil- 

1 Wieland’s  rather  harsh  and  not  too  judicious  sentence  on  it  may  he 
seen  at  large  in  Gruber’s  Wieland  Geschildert,  B.  ii.  s.  571. 

- The  well-written  life,  prefixed  to  the  Stuttgard  and  Tubingen  edition 
of  Schiller’s  works,  is  by  this  Korner.  The  Theodor  Korner, whose  Lyre 
and  Sword  became  afterwards  famous,  was  his  son. 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


65 


ler  found  a true  friend  in  Komer,  and  made  his  house  a home. 
He  parted  his  time  between  Dresden  and  Loschwitz,  near  it, 
where  that  gentleman  resided  : it  was  here  that  Don  Carlo s, 
the  printing  of  which  was  meanwhile  proceeding  at  Leipzig, 
received  its  completion  and  last  corrections.1  It  was  published 
in  1786. 

The  stoiy  of  Don  Carlos  seems  peculiarly  adapted  for  dram- 
atists. The  spectacle  of  a royal  youth  condemned  to  death 
by  his  father,  of  which  happily  our  European  annals  furnish 
but  another  example,  is  among  the  most  tragical  that  can 
be  figured  ; the  character  of  that  youth,  the  intermixture  of 
bigotry  and  jealousy,  and  love,  with  the  other  strong  passions, 
which  brought  on  his  fate,  afford  a combination  of  circum- 
stances, affecting  in  themselves,  and  well  calculated  for  the 
basis  of  deeply  interesting  fiction.  Accordingly  they  have 
not  been  neglected : Carlos  has  often  been  the  theme  of  poets  ; 

1 In  vol.  s.  of  the  Vienna  edition  of  Schiller  are  some  ludicrous  verses, 
almost  his  sole  attempt  in  the  way  of  drollery,  hearing  a title  equivalent 
to  this:  ‘To  the  Kiglit  Honourable  the  Board  of  Washers,  the  most 
humble  Memorial  of  a downcast  Tragic  Poet,  at  Loschwitz;’  of  which 
Doering  gives  the  following  account.  ‘ The  first  part  of  Dan  Carlos  be- 
ing already  printed,  by  GCsclien,  in  Leipzig,  the  poet,  pressed  for  the 
remainder,  felt  himself  obliged  to  stay  behind  from  an  excursion  which 
the  Korner  family  were  making,  in  a fine  autumn  day.  Unluckily,  the 
lady  of  the  house,  thinking  Schiller  was  to  go  along  with  them,  had 
locked  all  her  cupboards  and  the  cellar.  Schiller  found  himself  without 
meat  or  drink,  or  even  wood  for  fuel;  still  farther  exasperated  by  the 
dabbling  of  some  washer-maids  beneath  his  window,  he  produced  these 
lines.’  The  poem  is  of  the  kind  which  cannot  be  translated;  the  first 
three  stanzas  are  as  follows  : 

“ Die  Wasche  klatscht  vor  meiner  Thur, 

Es  plarrt  die  Kiichenzofe, 

Und  mich,  mich  fuhrt  das  Flugelthier 
Zu  Kdnig  Philips  Hofe. 

Ich  eile  durch  die  Gallerie 
Mit  sehnellem  Schritt,  belausche 

Doi  t die  Prinzessin  Eboli 
Im  siissen  Liebesrausche. 

Schon  ruft  das  schdne  Weib:  Triumph  ! 

Schon  1 i or’  ich — Tod  und  H 'lle! 

Was  hdr’  ich — einen  nassen  Strumpf 
Geworfen  in  die  Welle.” 


5 


66 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


particularly  since  the  time  when  his  history,  recorded  by  the 
Abbe  St.  Real,  was  exposed  in  more  brilliant  colours  to  the 
inspection  of  every  writer,  and  almost  of  every  reader. 

The  Abbe  St.  Real  was  a dexterous  artist  in  that  half-illicit 
species  of  composition,  the  historic  novel : in  the  course  of  his 
operations,  he  lighted  on  these  incidents ; and,  by  filling-up 
according  to  his  fancy,  what  historians  had  only  sketched  to 
him,  by  amplifying,  beautifying,  suppressing,  and  arranging, 
he  worked  the  whole  into  a striking  little  narrative,  distin- 
guished by  all  the  symmetry,  the  sparkling  graces,  the  vigor- 
ous description,  and  keen  thought,  which  characterise  his 
other  writings.  This  French  Sallust,  as  his  countrymen  have 
named  him,  has  been  of  use  to  many  dramatists.  His  Conju- 
raison  contre  Venise  furnished  Otway  with  the  outline  of  his 
best  tragedy  ; Epicaris  has  more  than  once  appeared  upon  the 
stage  ; and  Don  Carlos  has  been  dramatised  in  almost  all  the 
languages  of  Europe.  Besides  Otway’s  Carlos,  so  famous  at 
its  first  appearance,  man}'  tragedies  on  this  subject  have  been 
written : most  of  them  are  gathered  to  their  final  rest ; some 
are  fast  going  thither  ; two  bid  fair  to  last  for  ages.  Schiller 
and  Alfieri  have  both  drawn  their  plot  from  St.  Real ; the 
former  has  expanded  and  added ; the  latter  has  compressed 
and  abbreviated. 

Schiller’s  Carlos  is  the  first  of  his  plays  that  bear's  the 
stamp  of  anything  like  full  maturity.  The  opportunities  he 
had  enjoyed  for  extending  his  knowledge  of  men  and  things, 
the  sedulous  practice  of  the  art  of  composition,  the  study  of 
purer  models,  had  not  been  without  their  full  effect.  Increase 
of  years  had  done  something  for  him  ; diligence  had  done  much 
more.  The  ebullience  of  youth  is  now  chastened  into  the  stead- 
fast energy  of  manhood  ; the  wild  enthusiast,  that  spurned  at 
the  errors  of  the  world,  has  now  become  the  enlightened  mor- 
alist, that  laments  their  necessity,  or  endeavours  to  find  out 
their  remedy.  A corresponding  alteration  is  visible  in  the  ex- 
ternal form  of  the  work,  in  its.  plot  and  diction.  The  plot  is 
contrived  with  great  ingenuity,  embodying  the  result  of  much 
study,  both  dramatic  and  historical.  The  language  is  blank 
verse,  not  prose,  as  in  the  former  works  ; it  is  more  careful 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


67 


and  regular,  less  ambitious  in  its  object,  but  more  certain  of 
attaining  it.  Schiller's  mind  had  now  reached  its  full  stature  : 
he  felt  and  thought  more  justly  ; he  could  better  express  what 
he  felt  and  thought. 

The  merit  we  noticed  In  Fiesco,  the  fidelity  with  which  the 
scene  of  action  is  brought  before  us,  is  observable  to  a still 
greater  degree  in  Don  Carlos.  The  Spanish  court  in  the  end 
of  the  sixteenth  century  ; its  rigid,  cold  formalities  ; its  cruel, 
bigoted,  but  proud-spirited  grandees  ; its  inquisitors  and 
priests ; and  Philip,  its  head,  the  epitome  at  once  of  its  good 
and  its  bad  qualities,  in  all  his  complex  interests,  are  exhib- 
ited with  wonderful  distinctness  and  address.  Nor  is  it  at  the 
surface  or  the  outward  movements  alone  that  we  look  ; we  are 
taught  the  mechanism  of  their  characters,  as  well  as  shown  it 
in  action.  The  stony-hearted  Despot  himself  must  have  been 
an  object  of  peculiar  study  to  the  author.  Narrow  in  his 
understanding,  dead  in  his  affections,  from  his  birth  the  lord 
of  Europe,  Philip  has  existed  all  his  days  above  men,  not 
among  them.  Locked  up  within  himself,  a stranger  to  every 
generous  and  kindly  emotion,  his  gloomy  spirit  has  had  no 
employment  but  to  strengthen  or  increase  its  own  elevation,  no 
pleasure  but  to  gratify  its  own  self-will.  Superstition,  har- 
monising with  these  native  tendencies,  has  added  to  their 
force,  but  scarcely  to  their  hatefulness  : it  lends  them  a sort 
of  sacredness  in  his  own  eyes,  and  even  a sort  of  horrid 
dignity  in  ours.  Philip  is  not  without  a certain  greatness, 
the  greatness  of  unlimited  external  power,  and  of  a will 
relentless  in  its  dictates,  guided  by  principles,  false,  but 
consistent  and  unalterable.  The  scene  of  his  existence  is 
haggard,  stern  and  desolate  ; but  it  is  all  his  own,  and  lie, 
seems  fitted  for  it.  We  hate  him  and  fear  him  ; but  the  poet/ 
has  taken  care  to  secure  him  from  contempt. 

The  contrast  both  of  his  father’s  fortune  and  character  are 
those  of  Carlos.  Few  situations  of  a more  affecting  kind  can 
be  imagined,  than  the  situation  of  this  young,  generous  and 
ill-fated  prince.  From  boyhood  his  heart  had  been  bent  on 
mighty  things  ; he  had  looked  upon  the  royal  grandeur  that 
awaited  his  maturer  years,  only  as  the  means  of  realising  those 


68 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


projects  for  tlie  good  of  men,  which  his  beneficent  soul  was  ever 
busied  with.  His  father’s  dispositions,  and  the  temper  of  the 
court,  wdiich  admitted  no  development  of  such  ideas,  had  given 
the  charm  of  concealment  to  his  feelings  ; his  life  had  been  in 
prospect ; and  we  are  the  more  attached  to  him,  that  deserv- 
ing to  be  glorious  and  happy,  he  had  but  expected  to  be  either. 
Bright  days,  however,  seemed  approaching  ; shut  out  from  the 
communion  of  the  Albas  and  Domingos,  among  whom  he  lived 
a stranger,  the  communion  of  another  and  far  dearer  object 
was  to  be  granted  him  ; Elizabeth’s  love  seemed  to  make  him 
independent  even  of  the  future,  which  it  painted  with  still  richer 
hues.  But  in  a moment  she  is  taken  from  him  by  the  most 
terrible  of  all  visitations  ; his  bride  becomes  his  mother  ; and 
the  stroke  that  deprives  him  of  her,  wThile  it  ruins  him  forever, 
is  more  deadly,  because  it  cannot  be  complained  of  without 
sacrilege,  and  cannot  be  altered  by  the  power  of  Fate  itself. 
Carlos,  as  the  poet  represents  him,  calls  forth  our  tenderest 
sympathies.  His  soul  seems  once  to  have  been  rich  and  glori- 
ous, like  the  garden  of  Eden  ; but  the  desert-wind  has  passed 
over  it,  and  smitten  it  with  perpetual  blight.  Despair  has  over- 
shadowed all  the  fair  visions  of  his  youth  ; or  if  he  hopes,  it  is 
but  the  gleam  of  delirium,  which  something  sterner  than  even 
duty  extinguishes  in  the  cold  darkness  of  death.  His  energy 
survives  but  to  vent  itself  in  wild  gusts  of  reckless  passion,  or 
aimless  indignation.  There  is  a touching  poignancy  in  his  ex- 
pression of  the  bitter  melancholy  that  oppresses  him,  in  the 
fixedness  of  misery  with  which  he  looks  upon  the  faded  dreams 
of  former  years,  or  the  fierce  ebullitions  and  dreary  pauses  of 
resolution,  which  now  prompts  him  to  retrieve  what  he  has 
lost,  now  withers  into  powerlessness,  as  nature  and  reason  tell 
him  that  it  cannot,  must  not  be  retrieved. 

Elizabeth,  no  less  moving  and  attractive,  is  also  depicted 
with  masterly  skill.  If  she  returns  the  passion  of  her  amiable 
and  once  betrothed  lover,  we  but  guess  at  the  fact  ; for  so 
horrible  a thought  has  never  once  been  whispered  to  her  own 
gentle  and  spotless  mind.  Yet  her  heart  bleeds  for  Carlos  ; 
and  we  see  that  did  not  the  most  sacred  feelings  of  humanity 
forbid  her,  there  is  no  sacrifice  she  would  not  make  to  restore 


SCHILLER  A1  DRESDEN. 


69 


bis  peace  of  mind.  By  her  soothing  influence  she  strives  to 
cairn  the  agony  of  his  spirit ; by  her  mild  winning  eloquence 
she  would  persuade  him  that  for  Don  Carlos  other  objects 
must  remain,  'when  his  hopes  of  personal  felicity  have  been  cut 
off ; she  would  change  his  love  for  her  into  love  for  the  mill- 
ions of  human  beings  whose  destiny  depends  on  his.  A meek 
vestal,  yet  with  the  prudence  of  a queen,  and  the  courage  of  a 
matron,  with  every  graceful  and  generous  quality  of  woman- 
hood, harmoniously  blended  in  her  nature,  she  lives  in  a scene 
that  is  foreign  to  her ; the  happiness  she  should  have  had  is 
beside  her,  the  misery  she  must  endure  is  around  her  ; yet 
she  utters  no  regret,  gives  way  to  no  complaint,  but  seeks  to 
draw  from  duty  itself  a compensation  for  the  cureless  evil 
which  duty  has  inflicted.  Many  tragic  queens  are  more  im- 
posing and  majestic  than  this  Elizabeth  of  Schiller  ; but  there 
is  none  who  rules  over  us  with  a sway  so  soft  and  feminine, 
none  whom  we  feel  so  much  disposed  to  love  as  well  as  rever- 
ence. 

The  virtues  of  Elizabeth  are  heightened  by  comparison 
with  the  principles  and  actions  of  her  attendant,  the  Princess 
Eboli.  The  character  of  Eboli  is  full  of  pomp  and  profession  ; 
magnanimity  and  devotedness  are  on  her  tongue,  some  shadow 
of  them  even  floats  in  her  imagination  ; but  they  are  not  rooted 
in  her  heart  ; pride,  selfishness,  unlawful  passion  are  the  only 
inmates  there.  Her  lofty  boastings  of  generosity  are  soon  for- 
gotten when  the  success  of  her  attachment  to  Carlos  becomes 
hopeless  ; the  fervour  of  a selfish  love  once  extinguished  in  her 
bosom,  she  regards  the  object  of  it  with  none  but  vulgar  feel- 
ings. Virtue  no  longer  according  with  interest,  she  ceases  to 
be  virtuous  ; from  a rejected  mistress  the  transition  to  a jeal- 
ous spy  is  with  her  natural  and  easy.  Yet  we  do  not  hate  the 
Princess  : there  is  a seductive  warmth  and  grace  about  her 
character,  which  makes  us  lament  her  vices  rather  than  con- 
demn them.  The  poet  has  drawn  her  at  once  false  and  fairX 

In  delineating  Eboli  and  Philip,  Schiller  seems  as  if  strug- 
gling against  the  current  of  his  nature  ; our  feelings  towards 
them  are  hardly  so  severe  as  he  intended  ; their  words  and 
deeds,  at  least  those  of  the  latter,  are  wicked  and  repulsive 


70 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


enough  ; hut  we  still  have  a kind  of  latent  persuasion  that  they 
meant  better  than  they  sftoke  or  acted.  With  the  Marciuis  of 


love  of  men,  which  forms  his  ruling  passion,  was  likewise  the 
constant  feeling  of  his  author  ; the  glowing  eloquence  with 
which  he  advocates  the  cause  of  truth,  and  justice,  and  hu- 
manity, was  such  as  Schiller  too  would  have  employed  in 


his  object,  and  in  the  faculties  and  feelings  with  which  he  fol- 
lows it.  Of  a splendid  intellect,  and  a daring  devoted  heart, 
his  powers  are  all  combined  upon  a single  purpose.  Even  his 
friendship  for  Carlos,  grounded  on  the  likeness  of  their  minds, 
and  faithful  as  it  is,  yet  seems  to  merge  in  this  paramount 
emotion,  zeal  for  the  universal  interests  of  man .j ^Aiming,  with 
all  his  force  of  thought  and  action,  to  advance  the  happiness 
and  best  rights  of  his  fellow-creatures  ; pursuing  this  noble 
aim  with  the  skill  and  dignity  which  it  deserves,  his  mind  is 
at  once  unwearied,  earnest  and  serene.  He  is  another  Carlos, 
but  somewhat  older,  more  experienced,  and  never  crossed  in 
hopeless  love.  There  is  a calm  strength  in  Posa,  which  no 
accident  of  fortune  can  shake.  Whether  cheering  the  forlorn 
Carlos  into  new  activity  ; whether  lifting  up  his  voice  in  the 
ear  of  tyrants  and  inquisitors,  or  taking  leave  of  life  amid  his 
vast  unexecuted  schemes,  there  is  the  same  sedate  magnanim- 
ity, the  same  fearless  composure : when  the  fatal  bullet  strikes 
him,  he  dies  with  the  concerns  of  others,  not  his  own,  upon  his 
lips.  He  is  a reformer,  the  perfection  of  reformers ; not  a 
revolutionist,  but  a prudent  though  determined  improver. 
His  enthusiasm  does  not  burst  forth  in  violence,  but  in  manly 
and  enlightened  energy  ; his  eloquence  is  not  more  moving  to 
the  heart  than  his  lofty  philosophy  is  convincing  to  the  head. 
There  is  a majestic  vastness  of  thought  in  his  precepts,  which 
recommends  them  to  the  mind  independently  of  the  beauty  of 
their  dress.  Few  passages  of  poetry  are  more  spirit-stirring 
than  his  last  message  to  Carlos,  through  the  Queen.  The 
certainty  of  death  seems  to  surround  his  spirit  with  a kind  of 


similar  cii 
character  c 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


71 


martyr  glory  ; lie  is  kindled  into  transport,  and  speaks  with  a 
commanding  power.  The  pathetic  wisdom  of  the  line,  ‘ Tell 
him,  that  when  he  is  a man,  he  must  reverence  the  dreams  of 
his  youth,’  has  often  been  admired  : that  scene  has  many  such. 

The  interview  with  Philip  is  not  less  excellent.  There  is 
something  so  striking  in  the  idea  of  confronting  the  cold  sol- 
itary tyrant  with  ‘ the  only  man  in  all  his  states  that  does  not 
need  him  ; ’ of  raising  the  voice  of  true  manhood  for  once 
within  the  gloomy  chambers  of  thraldom  and  priestcraft,  that 
we  can  forgive  the  stretch  of  poetic  license  by  which  it  is 
effected.  Philip  and  Posa  are  antipodes  in  all  respects.  Philip 
thinks  his  new  instructor  is  a ‘ Protestant ; ’ a charge  which 
Posa  rebuts  with  calm  dignity,  his  object  not  being  sejraration 
and  contention,  but  union  and  peaceful  gradual  improvement. 
Posa  seems  to  understand  the  character  of  Philip  better  ; not 
attempting  to  awaken  in  his  sterile  heart  any  feeling  for  real 
glory,  or  the  interests  of  his  fellow-men,  he  attacks  his  self- 
ishness and  pride,  represents  to  him  the  intrinsic  meanness 
and  misery  of  a throne,  however  decked  with  adventitious 
pomp,  if  built  on  servitude,  and  isolated  from  the  sympathies 
and  interests  of  others. 

We  translate  the  entire  scene  ; though  not  by  any  means 
the  best,  it  is  among  the  fittest  for  extraction  of  any  in  the 
piece.  Posa  has  been  sent  for  by  the  King,  and  is  waiting  in 
a chamber  of  the  palace  to  know  what  is  required  of  him  ; the 
King  enters,  unperceived  by  Posa,  whose  attention  is  directed 
to  a picture  on  the  wall : 


[Ihe  latter , on  noticing  the  King,  advances  towards  him,  and  kneels , 
then  rises,  and  waits  without  any  symptom  of  embarrassment.] 
King  [ looks  at  Mm  with  surprise ]. 


Act  III.  Scene  X. 

The  King  and  Marquis  de  Posa. 


We  have  met  before,  then  ? 


Mar. 

King. 


No. 


You  did  my  crown 


Some  service  : wherefore  have  you  sliunn’d  my  thanks  ? 
Our  memory  is  besieged  by  crowds  of  suitors; 

Omniscient  is  none  but  He  in  Heaven. 


72 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


You  should  have  sought  my  looks  : why  did  you  not '? 
Mar.  ’Tis  scarcely  yet  two  days,  your  Majesty, 


Since  I returned  to  Spain. 
King. 


I am  not  used 


To  be  my  servants’  debtor  ; ask  of  me 
Some  favour. 


Mar.  I enjoy  the  laws. 


King. 


That  right 


The  very  murd’rer  has 
Mar. 


And  how  much  more 


The  honest  citizen  ! — Sire,  I’m  content. 

King  [aside].  Much  self-respect  indeed,  and  lofty  daring ! 

But  this  was  to  be  looked  for  : I would  have 
My  Spaniards  haughty  ; better  that  the  cup 
Should  overflow  than  not  be  full. — I hear 
You  left  my  service,  Marquis 

Mar.  Making  way 

For  men  more  worthy,  I withdrew. 

King.  . ’Tis  wrong ; 

When  spirits  such  as  yours  play  truant, 

My  state  must  suffer.  You  conceive,  perhaps. 

Some  post  unworthy  of  your  merits 
Might  be  offer’d  you  ? 

Mar.  No,  Sire,  I cannot  doubt 

But  that  a judge  so  skilful,  and  experienced 
In  the  gifts  of  men,  has  at  a glance  discover’d 
Wherein  I might  do  him  service,  wherein  not. 

I feel  with  humble  gratitude  the  favour 
With  which  your  Majesty  is  loading  me 

By  thoughts  so  lofty  : yet  I can — [He  stops. 

King.  You  pause  ? 

Mar.  Sire,  at  the  moment  I am  scarce  prepar’d 
To  speak,  in  phrases  of  a Spanish  subject. 

What  as  a citizen  o’  th’  world  I’ve  thought. 

Tiuth  is,  in  parting  from  the  Court  forever, 

I held  myself  discharged  from  all  necessity 
Of  troubling  it  with  reasons  for  my  absence. 

King.  Are  your  reasons  bad,  then  ? Dare  you  not  risk 
Disclosing  them  ? 

Mar.  lily  life,  and  joyfully, 

Were  scope  allow’d  me  to  disclose  them  all. 

’Tis  not  myself  but  Truth  that  I endanger, 

Should  the  King  refuse  me  a full  hearing. 

Your  anger  or  contempt  I fain  would  shun ; 

But  forced  to  choose  between  them,  I had  rather 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


73 


Seem  to  you  a man  deserving  punishment 
Than  pity. 

King  [with  a look  of  expectation ].  Well  ? 

Mar.  The  servant  of  a prince 

I cannot  he.  [ The  King  looks  at  him  with  astonishment. 

I will  not  cheat  my  merchant : 

If  you  deign  to  take  me  as  your  servant, 

You  expect,  you  wish,  my  actions  only  ; 

You  wish  my  arm  in  fight,  my  thought  in  counsel; 

Nothing  more  you  will  accept  of  : not  my  actions, 

TIT  approval  thej'  might  find  at  Court  becomes 
The  object  of  my  acting.  Now  for  me 
Eight  conduct  has  a value  of  its  own  : 

The  happiness  my  king  might  cause  me  plant 
I would  myself  produce  ; and  conscious  joy, 

And  free  selection,  not  the  force  of  duty, 

Should  impel  me.  Is  it  thus  your  Majesty 
Eequires  it  ? Could  you  suffer  new  creators 
In  your  own  creation  ? Or  could  I 
Consent  with  patience  to  become  the  chisel, 

When  I hoped  to  be  the  statuary  ? 

I love  mankind  ; and  in  a monarchy, 

Myself  is  all  that  I can  love. 

King.  This  fire 

Is  laudable.  You  would  do  good  to  others  ; 

How  you  do  it,  patriots,  wise  men  think 
Of  little  moment,  so  it  be  but  done. 

Seek  for  yourself  the  office  in  my  kingdoms 
That  will  give  you  scope  to  gratify 
This  noble  zeal. 

Mar.  There  is  not  such  an  office. 

King.  How  ? 

Mar.  What  the  King  desires  to  spread  abroad 

Through  these  weak  hands,  is  it  the  good  of  men  ? 

That  good  which  my  unfetter’d  love  would  wish  them  ? 

Pale  majesty  would  tremble  to  behold  it ! 

No ! Policy  has  fashioned  in  her  courts 
Another  sort  of  human  good ; a sort 
Which  she  is  rich  enough  to  give  away, 

Awakening  with  it  in  the  hearts  of  men 
New  cravings,  such  as  it  can  satisfy. 

Truth  she  keeps  coining  in  her  mints,  such  truth 
As  she  can  tolerate  ; and  every  die 
Except  her  own  she  breaks  and  casts  away. 

But  is  the  royal  bounty  wide  enough 


74 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER 


For  me  to  wish  and  work  in  ? Must  the  love 
I hear  my  brother  pledge  itself  to  he 
My  brother’s  jailor  ? Can  I call  him  happy 
When  he  dare  not  think  ? Sire,  choose  some,  other 
To  dispense  the  good  which  you  have  stamped  for  us. 

AVith  me  it  tallies  not ; a prince’s  servant 
I cannot  be. 

King  [r other  quickly]. 

You  are  a Protestant. 

Mae.  [ after  some  reflection J. 

Sire,  your  creed  is  also  mine.  [After  a pause. 

I find 

I am  misunderstood  : ’tis  as  I feared. 

You  see  me  draw  the  veil  from  majesty, 

And  view  its  mysteries  with  steadfast  eye  : 

How  should  you  know  if  I regard  as  holy 
What  I no  more  regard  as  terrible  ? 

Dangerous  I seem,  for  bearing  thoughts  too  high  : 

My  King,  I am  not  dangerous : my  wishes 

Lie  buried  here.  [Laying  his  hand  on  his  Ireast. 

The  poor  and  purblind  rage 
Of  innovation,  that  but  aggravates 
The  weight  o’  th’  fetters  which  it  cannot  break, 

Will  never  heat  my  blood.  The  century 
Admits  not  my  ideas : I live  a citizen 
Of  those  that  are  to  come.  Sire,  can  a picture 
Break  your  rest  ? Your  breath  obliterates  it. 

King.  No  other  knows  you  harbour  such  ideas  ? 

Mae.  Such,  no  one. 

King  [vises,  walks  a few  steps , then  stops  opposite  the  Marquis. — Aside], 
•New  at  least,  this  dialect ! 

Flattery  exhausts  itself  : a man  of  parts 
Disdains  to  imitate.  For  once  let’s  have 
A trial  of  the  opposite  ! Why  not  ? 

The  strange  is  oft  the  lucky. — If  so  be 
This  is  your  principle,  why  let  it  pass  ! 

I will  conform  ; the  crown  shall  have  a servant 
New  in  Spain, — a liberal ! 

Mae.  Sire,  I see 

How  very  meanly  you  conceive  of  men  ; 

How,  in  the  language  of  the  frank  true  spirit 
You  find  but  another  deeper  artifice 
Of  a more  practis’d  coz’ner  : I can  also 
Partly  see  what  causes  this.  ’Tis  men  ; 

’Tis  men  that  force  you  to  it  : they  themselves 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


75 


Have  cast  away  their  own  nobility, 

Themselves  have  crouch’d  to  this  degraded  posture. 

Man’s  innate  greatness,  like  a spectre,  frights  them  ; 

Their  poverty  seems  safety  ; with  base  skill 
They  ornament  their  chains,  and  call  it  virtue 
To  wear  them  with  an  air  of  grace.  ’Twas  thus 
You  found  the  world  ; thus  from  your  royal  father 
Came  it  to  you  : how  in  this  distorted, 

Mutilated  image  could  you  honour  man  ? 

King.  Some  truth  there  is  in  this. 

Mar.  Pity,  however. 

That  in  taking  man  from  the  Creator, 

And  changing  him  into  your  handiwork, 

And  setting  up  yourself  to  he  the  god 
Of  this  new-moulded  creature,  you  should  have 
Forgotten  one  essential  ; you  yourself 
Remained  a man,  a very  child  of  Adam  ! 

You  are  still  a suffering,  longing  mortal, 

You  call  for  sympathy,  and  to  a god 
We  can  but  sacrifice,  and  pray,  and  tremble  ! 

O unwise  exchange  ! unbless’ d perversion  ! 

When  you  have  sunk  your  brothers  to  be  play’d 
As  harp-strings,  who  will  join  in  harmony 
With  you  the  player  '? 

King  [aside].  By  Heaven,  he  touches  me  ! 

Mar.  For  you,  however,  this  is  unimportant  ; 

It  but  makes  you  separate,  peculiar  ; 

’Tis  the  price  you  pay  for  being  a god. 

And  frightful  were  it  if  you  failed  in  this  ! 

If  for  the  desolated  good  of  millions, 

You  the  Desolator  should  gain — nothing  ! 

If  the  very  freedom  you  have  blighted 
And  kill'd  were  that  alone  which  could  exalt 
Yourself! — Sire,  pardon  me,  I must  not  stay: 

The  matter  makes  me  rash  : my  heart  is  full, 

Too  strong  the  charm  of  looking  on  the  one 
Of  living  men  to  whom  I might  unfold  it. 

[The  Count  de  Ltrma  enters , and  ichispers  a feio  words  to  the 
King.  The  latter  beckons  to  him  to  withdraw,  and  continues 
sitting  in  his  former  posture. 

King  [to  the  Marquis , after  Lerma  is  gone]. 

Speak  on  ! 

Mar.  [after  a pause],  I feel,  Sire,  all  the  worth — 

King.  Speak  on  ! 

Y‘  had  something  more  to  say. 


70 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Mar.  Not  long  since,  Sire, 

I chanced  to  pass  through  Flanders  and  Brabant. 

So  many  rich  and  flourishing  provinces  ; 

A great,  a mighty  people,  and  still  more, 

An  honest  people  ! — And  this  people’s  Father  ! 

That,  thought  I,  must  be  divine  : so  thinking, 

I stumbled  on  a heap  of  human  bones. 

[lie  pauses  ; Ms  eyes  rest  on  the  King,  who  endeavours  to  return, 
his  glance,  hut  with  an  air  of  embarrassment  is  forced  to  look 
upon  the  ground. 

You  are  in  the  right,  you  must  proceed  so. 

That  you  could  do,  what  you  saw  you  must  do, 

Fills  me  with  a shuddering  admiration. 

Pity  that  the  victim  welt’ring  in  its  blood 

Should  speak  so  feeble  an  eulogium 

On  the  spirit  of  the  priest ! That  mere  men, 

Not  beings  of  a calmer  essence,  write 
The  annals  of  the  world  ! Serener  ages 
Will  displace  the  age  of  Philip  ; these  will  bring 
A milder  wisdom  ; the  subject  s good  will  then 
Be  reconcil’d  to  tli’  prince’s  greatness  ; 

The  thrifty  State  will  learn  to  prize  its  children, 

And  necessity  no  more  will  be  inhuman. 

King.  And  when,  think  you,  would  those  blessed  ages 
Have  come  round,  had  I recoil’d  before 
The  curse  of  this  ? Behold  my  Spain  ! Here  blooms 
The  subject’s  good,  in  never-clouded  peace  : 

Stich  peace  will  I bestow  on  Flanders. 

Mar.  Peace  of  a churchyard ! And  you  hope  to  end 
What  you  have  entered  on  ? Hope  to  withstand 
The  timeful  change  of  Christendom  ; to  stop 
The  universal  Spring  that  shall  make  young 
The  countenance  o’  th'  Earth  ? You  purpose,  single 
In  all  Europe,  alone,  to  fling  yourself 
Against  the  wheel  of  Destiny  that  rolls 
For  ever  its  appointed  course  ; to  clutch 
Its  spokes  with  mortal  arm  ? You  may  not,  Sire  ! 

Already  thousands  have  forsook  your  kingdoms, 

Escaping  glad  though  poor  : the  citizen 

You  lost  for  conscience’  sake,  he  was  your  noblest. 

With  mother  s arms  Elizabeth  receives 
The  fugitives,  and  rich  by  foreign  skill, 

In  fertile  strength  her  England  blooms.  Forsaken 
Of  its  toilsome  people,  lies  Grenada 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


77 


Desolate  ; and  Europe  sees  with  glad  surprise 
Its  enemy  faint  with  self-inflicted  wounds. 

[ The  King  seems  moved : the  Marquis  observes  it,  and  advances 
some  steps  nearer. 

Plant  for  Eternity  and  death  the  seed  ? 

Your  harvest  will  be  nothingness.  The  work 
Will  not  survive  the  spirit  of  its  former  ; 

It  will  be  in  vain  that  you  have  labour'd  ; 

That  you  have  fought  the  fight  with  Nature  ; 

And  to  plans  of  Ruin  consecrated 
A high  and  royal  lifetime.  Man  is  greater 
Than  you  thought.  The  bondage  of  long  slumber 
He  will  break  ; his  sacred  rights  he  will  reclaim. 

With  Nero  and  Busiris  will  he  rank 

The  name  of  Philip,  and — that  grieves  me,  for 

You  once  were  good. 

King.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Mar.  [with  warm  energy].  You  were  ; 

Yes,  by  th’  All-Merciful ! Yes,  I repeat  it. 

Restore  to  us  what  you  have  taken  from  us. 

Generous  as  strong,  let  human  happiness 
Stream  from  your  horn  of  plenty,  let  souls  ripen 
Round  you.  Restore  us  what  you  took  from  us. 

Amid  a thousand  kings  become  a king. 

[He  approaches  him  boldly , Jiving  on  him  Jinn  and 
gloicing  looks. 

Oh,  could  the  eloquence  of  all  the  millions, 

Who  participate  in  this  great  moment, 

Hover  on  my  lips,  and  raise  into  a flame 
That  gleam  that  kindles  in  your  eyes ! 

Give  up  this  false  idolatry  of  self, 

Which  makes  your  brothers  nothing  ! Be  to  us 
A pattern  of  the  Everlasting  and  the  True ! 

Never,  never,  did  a mortal  hold  so  much, 

To  use  it  so  divinely.  All  the  kings 
Of  Europe  reverence  the  name  of  Spain : 

Go  on  in  front  of  all  the  kings  of  Europe  ! 

One  movement  of  your  pen,  and  new-created 
Is  the  Earth.  Say  but,  Let  there  be  freedom ! 

[Throwing  himself  at  his  feet. 
King  [surprised,  turning  his  face  away , then  again  towards  Posa ]. 
Singular  enthusiast!  Yet— rise — I — - 

Mar.  Look  round  and  view  God's  lordly  universe  : 

On  Freedom  it  is  founded,  and  how  rich 
Is  it  with  Freedom  ! He,  the  great  Creator, 


78 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Has  giv’n  the  very  worm  its  sev’ral  dewdrop  ; 

Ev  il  in  the  mouldering  spaces  of  Decay, 

He  leaves  Free-will  the  pleasures  of  a choice. 

This  world  of  yours!  how  narrow  and  how  poor 
The  rustling  of  a leaf  alarms  the  lord 
Of  Christendom.  You  quake  at  every  virtue  ; 

He,  not  to  mar  the  glorious  form  of  Freedom, 

Suffers  that  the  hideous  hosts  of  Evil 
Should  run  riot  in  his  fair  Creation. 

Him  the  maker  we  behold  not ; calm 
He  veils  himself  in  everlasting  laws, 

Which  and  not  him  the  sceptic  seeing  exclaims, 

‘ Wherefore  a God  ? The  world  itself  is  God.’ 

And  never  did  a Christian’s  adoration 
So  praise  him  as  this  sceptic’s  blasphemy. 

King.  And  such  a model  you  would  undertake, 

On  Earth,  in  my  domains  to  imitate  ? 

Mah.  You,  you  can  : who  else  ? To  tli’  people’s  good 
Devote  the  kingly  power,  which  far  too  long 
Has  struggled  for  the  greatness  of  the  throne. 

Restore  the  lost  nobilit}'  of  man. 

Once  more  make  of  the  subject  what  he  was. 

The  purpose  of  the  Crown  ; let  no  tie  bind  him. 

Except  his  brethren’s  right,  as  sacred  as 

His  own.  And  when,  given  back  to  self-dependence, 

Man  awakens  to  the  feeling  of  his  worth, 

And  freedom’s  proud  and  lofty  virtues  blossom, 

Then,  Sire,  having  made  your  realms  the  happiest 
In  the  Earth,  it  may  become  your  duty 
To  subdue  the  realms  of  others. 

King  [ after  a long  pause], 

I have  heard  you  to  an  end. 

Not  as  in  common  heads,  the  world  is  painted 
In  that  head  of  yours  : nor  will  I mete  you 
By  the  common  standard.  I am  the  first 
To  whom  your  heart  has  been  disclosed  : 

I know  this,  so  believe  it  For  the  sake 

Of  such  forbearance  ; for  your  having  kept 

Ideas,  embraced  with  such  devotion,  secret 

Up  to  this  present  moment,  for  the  sake 

Of  that  reserve,  young  man,  I will  forget 

That  I have  learned  them,  and  how  I learned  them. 

Arise.  The  headlong  youth  I will  set  right, 

Not  as  his  sovereign,  but  as  his  senior. 

I will,  because  I will.  So  ! bane  itself. 


SCIIILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


79 


I find,  in  generous  natures  may  become 
Ennobled  into  something  better.  But 
Beware  my  Inquisition  ! It  would  grieve  me 
If  you— 

Mar.  Would  it  ? would  it  ? 

King  [ gazing  at  him,  and  lost  in  surprise]. 

Such  a mortal 

Till  this  hour  I never  saw.  No,  Marquis ! 

No  ! You  do  me  wrong.  To  you  I will  not 
Be  a Nero,  not  to  you.  All  happiness 
Shall  not  be  blighted  by  me : you  yourself 
Shall  be  permitted  to  remain  a man 
Beside  me. 

Mar.  [quickly].  And  my  fellow-subjects,  Sire  ? 

Oh,  not  for  me,  not  my  cause  was  I pleading. 

And  your  subjects,  Sire  ? 

King.  You  see  so  clearly 

How  posterity  will  judge  of  me  ; yourself 
Shall  teach  it  how  I treated  men  so  soon 
As  I had  found  one. 

Mar.  O Sire  ! in  being 

The  most  just  of  kings,  at  the  same  instant 
Be  not  the  most  unjust!  ^1  your  Flanders 
Are  many  thousands  worthier  than  I. 

'Tis  but  yourself, — shall  I confess  it,  Sire  ?— 

That  under  this  mild  form  first  truly  see 
What  freedom  is. 

King  [ with  softened  earnestness]. 

Young  man,  no  more  of  this. 

Far  differently  will  you  think  of  men, 

When  you  have  seen  and  studied  them  as  I have. 

Yet  our  first  meeting  must  not  be  our  last ; 

How  shall  I try  to  make  you  mine  ? 

Mar.  Sire,  let  me 

Continue  as  I am.  What  good  were  it 
To  you,  if  I like  others  were  corrupted  ? 

King.  This  pride  I will  not  suffer.  From  this  moment 
You  are  in  my  service.  No  remonstrance  ! 

I will  have  it  so.  * * * * * 

Had  the  character  of  Posa  been  drawn  ten  years  later,  it 
would  have  been  imputed,  as  all  things  are,  to  the  ‘ French 
devolution  ; ’ and  Schiller  himself  perhaps  might  have  been 
called  a Jacobin.  Happily,  as  matters  stand,  there  is  room  for 


80 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


bo  such  imputation.  It  is  pleasing  to  behold  in  Posa  the  de- 
liberate expression  of  a great  and  good  man’s  sentiments  on 
these  ever-agitated  subjects  : a noble  monument,  embodying 
the  liberal  ideas  of  his  age,  in  a form  beautified  by  his  own 
genius,  and  lasting  as  its  other  products.1 

Connected  with  the  superior  excellence  of  Posa,  critics  have 
remarked  a dramatic  error,  which  the  author  himself  was  the 
first  to  acknowledge  and  account  for.  , The  magnitude  of  Posa 
throws  Carlos  into  the  shade ; the  hero  of  the  first  three  acts 
is  no  longer  the  hero  of  the  other  two.^  The  cause  of  this,  we 
are  informed,  was  that  Schiller  kept  the  work  too  long  upon 
his  own  hands  : 

‘In  composing  the  piece,’  he  observes,  ‘many  interruptions 
occurred  ; so  that  a considerable  time  elapsed  between  begin- 
ning and  concluding  it ; and,  in  the  mean  while,  much  within 
myself  had  changed.  The  various  alterations  which,  during 
this  period,  my  way  of  thinking  and  feeling  underwent,  natu- 
rally told  upon  the  work  I was  engaged  with.  What  parts  of 
it  had  at  first  attracted  me,  began  to  produce  this  effect  in  a 
weaker  degree,  and,  in  the  end,  scarftly  at  all.  New  ideas, 
springing  up  in  the  interim,  displaced  the  former  ones  ; Car- 
los himself  had  lost  my  favour,  perhaps  for  no  other  reason 
than  because  I had  become  his  senior  ; and,  from  the  oppo- 
site cause,  Posa  had  occupied  his  place.  Thus  I commenced 
the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  with  quite  an  altered  heart.  But  the 
first  three  were  already  in  the  hands  of  the  public  ; the  plan 
of  the  whole  could  not  now  be  re-formed  ; nothing  therefore 
remained  but  to  suppress  the  piece  entirely,  or  to  fit  the  sec- 
ond half  to  the  first  the  best  way  I could.’ 

The  imperfection  alluded  to  is  one  of  which  the  general 
reader  will  make  no  great  account ; the  second  half  is  fitted 
to  the  first  with  address  enough  for  his  purposes.  Intent  not 
upon  applying  the  dramatic  gauge,  but  on  being  moved  and 
exalted,  we  may  peruse  the  tragedy  without  noticing  that  any 
such  defect  exists  in  it.  The  pity  and  love  we  are  first  taught 

1 Jean  Paul  nevertheless,  not  without  some  show  of  reason,  has  com-  • 
pared  this  Posa  to  the  tower  of  a lighthouse  : ‘ high,  far-shining,— 
empty ! ’ {Note  of  1845.) 


SCIIILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


81 


to  feel  for  Carlos  abide  with  us  to  the  last  ; and  though  Posa 
rises  in  importance  as  the  piece  proceeds,  our  admiration  of 
his  transcendent  virtues  does  not  obstruct  the  gentler  feelings 
with  which  we  look  upon  the  fate  of  his  friend.  A certain 
confusion  and  crowding  together  of  events,  about  the  end  of 
the  play,  is  the  only  fault  in  its  plan  that  strikes  us  with  any 
force.  Even  this  is  scarcely  prominent  enough  to  be  offen- 
sive. 

An  intrinsic  and  weightier  defect  is  the  want  of  ease  and 
lightness  in  the  general  composition  of  the  piece  ; a defect  which 
all  its  other  excellencies  will  not  prevent  us  from  observing. 
There  is  action  enough  in  the  plot,  energy  enough  in  the  dia- 
logue, and  abundance  of  individual  beauties  in  both  ; but  there 
is  throughout  a certain  air  of  stiffness  and  effort,  which  ab- 
stracts from  the  theatrical  illusion.  The  language,  in  general 
impressive  and  magnificent,  is  now  and  then  inflated  into  bom- 
bast. The  characters  do  not,  as  it  were,  verify  their  human 
nature,  by  those  thousand  little  touches  and  nameless  turns, 
which  distinguish  the  genius  essentially  dramatic  from  the 
genius  merely  poetical ; the  Proteus  of  the  stage  from  the  phil- 
osophic observer  and  trained  imitator  of  life.  We  have  not 
those  careless  felicities,  those  varyings  from  high  to  low,  that 
air  of  living  freedom  which  Shakspeare  has  accustomed  us,  like 
spoiled  children,  to  look  for  in  every  perfect  work  of  this  spe- 
cies. Schiller  is  too  elevated,  too  regular  and  sustained  in  his 
elevation,  to  be  altogether  natural. 

Yet  with  all  this,  Carlos  is  a noble  tragedy.  There  is  a stately 
massiveness  about  the  structure  of  it  ; the  incidents  are  grand 
and  affecting  ; the  characters  powerful,  vividly  conceived,  and 
impressively  if  not  completely  delineated.  Of  wit  and  its  kin- 
dred graces  Schiller  has  but  a slender  share  : nor  among  great 
poets  is  he  much  distinguished  for  depth  or  fineness  of  pathos. 
But  what  gives  him  a place  of  his  own,  and  the  loftiest  of  its 
kind,  is  the  vastness  and  intense  vigour  of  his  mind  ; the  splen- 
dour of  his  thoughts  and  imagery,  and  the  bold  vehemence  of 
his  passion  for  the  true  and  the  sublime,  under  all  their  vari- 
ous forms.  He  does  not  thrill,  but  he  exalts  us.  His  genius 
is  impetuous,  exuberant,  majestic  ; and  a heavenly  fire  gleams 
0 


82 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


through  all  his  creations.  He  transports  us  into  a holier  and 
higher  world  than  our  own  •.  everything  around  us  breathes  of 
force  and  solemn  beauty.  The  looks  of  his  heroes  may  be  more 
staid  than  those  of  men,  the  movements  of  their  minds  may  be 
slower  and  more  calculated  ; but  we  yield  to  the  potency  of 
their  endowments,  and  the  loveliness  of  the  scene  which  they 
animate.  The  enchantments  of  the  poet  are  strong  enough  to 
silence  our  scepticism  ; we  forbear  to  inquire  whether  it  is  true 
or  false. 

The  celebrity  of  Alfieri  generally  invites  the  reader  of  Don 
Carlos  to  compare  it  with  Filippo.  Both  writers  treat  the  same 
subject  ; both  borrow  their  materials  from  the  same  source, 
the  nouvelle  historique  of  St.  Real  ; but  it  is  impossible  that 
two  powerful  minds  could  have  handled  one  given  idea  in  more 
diverse  manners.  Their  excellencies  are,  in  fact,  so  opposite, 
that  they  scarcely  come  in  competition.  Alfieri’s  play  is  short, 
and  the  characters  are  few.  He  describes  no  scene  : his  per- 
sonages are  not  the  King  of  Spain  and  his  courtiers,  but  merely 
men  ; their  place  of  action  is  not  the  Escurial  or  Madrid,  but 
a vacant,  objectless  platform  anywhere  in  space.  In  all  this, 
Schiller  has  a manifest  advantage.  He  paints  manners  and 
opinions,  he  sets  before  us  a striking  pageant,  which  interests 
us  of  itself,  and  gives  a new  interest  to  whatever  is  combined 
with  it.  The  principles  of  the  antique,  or  perhaps  rather  of 
the  French  drama,  upon  which  Alfieri  worked,  permitted  no 
such  delineation.  In  the  style  there  is  the  same  diversity.  A 
severe  simplicity  uniformly  marks  Alfieri’s  style  ; in  his  whole  ' 
tragedy  there  is  not  a single  figure.  A hard  emphatic  brevity 
is  all  that  distinguishes  his  language  from  that  of  prose.  Schil- 
ler, we  have  seen,  abounds  with  noble  metaphors,  and  all  the 
warm  exciting  eloquence  of  poetry.  It  is  only  in  expressing 
the  character  of  Philip  that  Alfieri  has  a clear  superiority. 
Without  the  aid  of  superstition,  which  his  rival,  especially  in 
the  catastrophe,  enqffoys  to  such  advantage,  Alfieri  has  ex- 
hibited in  his  Filippo  a picture  of  unequalled  power.  Obscurity 
is  justly  said  to  be  essential  to  terror  and  sublimity;  and 
Schiller  has  enfeebled  the  effect  of  his  Tyrant,  by  letting  us  be- 
hold the  most  secret  recesses  of  his  spirit : we  understand  him 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


S3 


better,  but  we  fear  him  less.  Alfieri  does  not  show  us  the  in- 
ternal combination  of  Filippo  : it  is  from  its  workings  alone 
that  we  judge  of  his  nature.  Mystery,  and  the  shadow  of 
horrid  cruelty,  brood  over  his  Filippo  : it  is  only  a transient 
word  or  act  that  gives  us  here  and  there  a glimpse  of  his  fierce, 
implacable,  tremendous  soul ; a short  and  dubious  glimmer 
that  reveals  to  us  the  abysses  of  his  being,  dark,  lurid,  and 
terrific,  ‘ as  the  throat  of  the  infernal  Pool.’  Alfieri’s  Filippo 
is  perhaps  the  most  wicked  man  that  human  imagination  has 
conceived. 

Alfieri  and  Schiller  were  again  unconscious  competitors  in 
the  history  of  Mary  Stuart.  But  the  works  before  us  give  a 
truer  specimen  of  their  comparative  merits.  Schiller  seems 
to  have  the  greater  genius  ; Alfieri  the  more  commanding 
character.  Alfieri’s  greatness  rests  on  the  stern  concentration 
of  fiery  passion,  under  the  dominion  of  an  adamantine  will : 
this  was  his  own  make  of  mind  ; and  he  represents  it,  with 
strokes  iu  themselves  devoid  of  charm,  but  in  their  union  ter- 
rible as  a prophetic  scroll.  Schiller’s  moral  force  is  commen- 
surate with  his  intellectual  gifts,  and  nothing  more.  The  mind 
of  the  one  is  like  the  ocean,  beautiful  in  its  strength,  smiling 
in  the  radiance  of  summer,  and  washing  luxuriant  and  roman- 
tic shores  : that  of  the  other  is  like  some  black  unfathomable 
lake  placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  mountains  ; bleak,  soli- 
tary, desolate  ; but  girdled  with  grim  sky-piercing  cliffs, 
overshadowed  with  storms,  and  illuminated  only  by  the  red 
glare  of  the  lightning.  Schiller  is  magnificent  in  his  expan- 
sion, Alfieri  is  overpowering  in  his  condensed  energy  ; the 
first  inspires  us  with  greater  admiration,  the  last  with  greater 
awe. 

This  tragedy  of  Carlos  was  received  with  immediate  and 
universal  approbation.  In  the  closet  and  on  the  stage,  it  ex- 
cited the  warmest  applauses  equally  among  the  learned  and 
unlearned.  Schiller’s  expectations  had  not  been  so  high  : he 
knew  both  the  excellencies  and  the  faults  of  his  work  ; but  he 
had  not  anticipated  that  the  former  would  be  recognised  so 
instantaneously.  * The  pleasure  of  this  new  celebrity  came 


Si 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


upon  liim,  therefore,  heightened  by  surprise.  Had  dramatic 
eminence  been  his  sole  object,  he  might  now  have  slackened 
his  exertions  ; the  public  had  already  ranked  him  as  the  first 
of  their  writers  in  that  favourite  department.  But  this  limited 
ambition  was  not  his  moving  principle  ; nor  was  his  mind  of 
that  sort  for  which  rest  is  provided  in  this  world.  The  pri- 
mary disposition  of  his  nature  urged  him  to  perpetual  toil : 
the  great  aim  of  his  life,  the  unfolding  of  his  mental  powers, 
was  one  of  those  which  admit  but  a relative  not  an  absolute 
progress.  New  ideas  of  perfection  arise  as  the  former  have 
been  reached  ; the  student  is  always  attaining,  never  has  at- 
tained. 

Schiller’s  worldly  circumstances,  too,  were  of  a kind  well 
calculated  to  prevent  excess  of  quietism.  He  was  still  drift- 
ing at  large  on  the  tide  of  life  ; he  was  crowned  with  laurels, 
but  without  a home.  His  heart,  warm  and  affectionate,  fitted 
to  enjoy  the  domestic  blessings  which  it  longed  for,  was  al- 
lowed to  form  no  permanent  attachment : he  felt  that  he  was 
unconnected,  solitary  in  the  world  ; cut  off  from  the  exercise 
of  his  kindlier  sympathies  ; or  if  tasting  such  pleasures,  it  was 
‘ snatching  them  rather  than  partaking  of  them  calmly.’  The 
vulgar  desire  of  wealth  and  station  never  entered  his  mind  for 
an  instant  ; but  as  years  were  added  to  his  age,  the  delights 
of  peace  and  continuous  comfort  w’ere  fast  becoming  more 
acceptable  than  any  other  ; and  he  looked  with  anxiety  to 
have  a resting-place  amid  his  wanderings,  to  be  a man  among 
his  fellow-men. 

For  all  these  wishes,  Schiller  saw  that  the  only  chance  of 
fulfilment  depended  on  unwearied  perseverance  in  his  literary 
occupations.  Yet  though  his  activity  was  unabated,  and  the 
calls  on  it  were  increasing  rather  than  diminished,  its  direc- 
tion was  gradually  changing.  The  Drama  had  long  been 
stationary,  and  of  late  been  falling  in  his  estimation : the  dif- 
ficulties of  the  art,  as  he  viewed  it  at  present,  had  been  over- 
come, and  new  conquests  invited  him  in  other  quarters.  The 
latter  part  of  Carlos  he  had  written  as  a task  rather  than  a 
pleasure  ; he  contemplated  no  farther  undertaking  connected 
with  the  Stage.  For  a time,  indeed,  he  seems  to  have  wa- 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


S5 


vered  among  a multiplicity  of  enterprises  ; now  solicited  to 
this,  and  now  to  that,  without  being  able  to  fix  decidedly  on 
any.  The  restless  ardour  of  his  mind  is  evinced  by  the  num- 
ber and  variety  of  his  attempts  ; its  fluctuation  by  the  circum- 
stance that  all  of  them  are  either  short  in  extent,  or  left  in  the 
state  of  fragments.  Of  the  former  kind  are  his  lyrical  pro- 
ductions, many  of  which  were  composed  about  this  period, 
during  intervals  from  more  serious  labours.  The  character 
of  these  performances  is  such  as  his  former  writings  gave  us 
reason  to  expect.  With  a deep  insight  into  life,  and  a keen 
and  comprehensive  sympathy  with  its  sorrows  and  enjoyments, 
there  is  combined  that  impetuosity  of  feeling,  that  pomp  of 
thought  and  imagery  which  belong  peculiarly  to  Schiller.  If 
he  had  now  left  the  Drama,  it  was  clear  that  his  mind  was 
still  overflowing  with  the  elements  of  poetry  ; dwelling  among 
the  grandest  conceptions,  and  the  boldest  or  finest  emotions  ; 
thinking  intensely  and  profoundly,  but  decorating  its  thoughts 
with  those  graces,  which  other  faculties  than  the  under- 
standing are  required  to  afford  them.  With  these  smaller 
pieces,  Schiller  occupied  himself  at  intervals  of  leisure  through- 
out the  remainder  of  his  life.  Some  of  them  are  to  be  classed 
among  the  most  finished  efforts  of  his  genius.  The  Walk,  the 
Song  of  the  Bell,  contain  exquisite  delineations  of  the  foi’tunes 
and  history  of  man  ; his  Ritter  Toggenburg,  his  Cranes  of  lby- 
cus,  his  Hero  and  Leander,  are  among  the  most  poetical  and 
moving  ballads  to  be  found  in  any  language. 

Of  these  poems,  the  most  noted  written  about  this  time, 
the  Freethinking  of  Passion  ( Freigeisterei  der  Leidenschaft) , is 
said  to  have  originated  in  a real  attachment.  The  lady,  whom 
some  biographers  of  Schiller  introduce  to  us  by  the  mysteri- 
ous designation  of  the  ‘ Fraulein  A * * *,  one  of  the  first 
beauties  in  Dresden,’  seems  to  have  made  a deep  impression 
on  the  heart  of  the  poet.  They  tell  us  that  she  sat  for  the 
picture  of  the  princess  Eboli,  in  his  Don  Carlos  ; that  he  paid 
his  court  to  her  with  the  most  impassioned  fervour,  and  the 
extreme  of  generosity.  They  add  one  or  two  anecdotes  of 
dubious  authenticity  ; which,  as  they  illustrate  nothing,  but 
show  us  only  that  love  could  make  Schiller  crazy,  as  it  is  said 


8G  the  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 

to  make  all  gods  and  men,  we  shall  use  the  freedom  to 
omit. 

This  enchanting  and  not  inexorable  spinster  perhaps  dis- 
placed the  Mannheim  Laura  from  her  throne  ; but  the  gallant 
assiduities,  which  she  required  or  allowed,  seem  not  to  have 
abated  the  zeal  of  her  admirer  in  his  more  profitable  under- 
takings. Her  reign,  we  suppose,  was  brief,  and  without  abid- 
ing influence.  Schiller  never  wrote  or  thought  with  greater 
diligence  than  while  at  Dresden.  Partially  occupied  with 
conducting  his  Thalia,  or  with  those  more  slight  poetical  per- 
formances, his  mind  was  hovering  among  a multitude  of 
weightier  plans,  and  seizing  with  avidity  any  hint  that  might 
assist  in  directing  its  attempts.  To  this  state  of  feeling  we 
are  probably  indebted  for  the  Geisterseher,  a novel,  naturalised 
in  our  circulating  libraries  by  the  title  of  the  Ghostseer,  two 
volumes  of  which  were  published  about  this  time.  The  king  of 
quacks,  the  renowned  Cagliostro,  was  now  playing  his  dextrous 
game  at  Paris  : harrowing-up  the  souls  of  the  curious  and 
gullible  of  all  ranks  in  that  capital,  by  various  thaumaturgic 
feats  ; raising  the  dead  from  their  graves  ; and,  what  was 
more  to  the  purpose,  raising  himself  from  the  station  of  a 
poor  Sicilian  lacquey  to  that  of  a sumptuous  and  extravagant 
count.  The  noise  of  his  exploits  appears  to  have  given  rise 
to  this  work  of  Schiller’s.  It  is  an  attempt  to  exemplify  the 
process  of  hoodwinking  an  acute  but  too  sensitive  man ; of 
working  on  the  latent  germ  of  superstition,  which  exists  be- 
neath his  outward  scepticism  ; harassing  his  mind  by  the  ter- 
rors of  magic, — the  magic  of  chemistry  and  natural  philosophy 
and  natural  cunning  ; till,  racked  by  doubts  and  agonising 
fears,  and  plunging  from  one  depth  of  dark  uncertainty  into 
another,  he  is  driven  at  length  to  still  his  scruples  in  the  bosom 
of  the  Infallible  Church.  The  incidents  are  contrived  with 
considerable  address,  displaying  a familiar  acquaintance,  not 
only  with  several  branches  of  science,  but  also  with  some  curi- 
ous forms  of  life  and  human  nature.  One  or  two  characters 
are  forcibly  drawn ; particularly  that  of  the  amiable  but  feeble 
Count,  the  victim  of  the  operation.  The  strange  Foreigner, 
with  the  visage  of  stone,  who  conducts  the  business  of  mystifi- 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


S7 


cation,  strikes  us  also,  though  we  see  hut  little  of  him.  The 
work  contains  some  vivid  description,  some  passages  of  deep 
tragical  effect  : it  has  a vein  of  keen  observation  ; in  general, 
a certain  rugged  power,  which  might  excite  regret  that  it  was 
never  finished.  But  Schiller  found  that  his  views  had  been 
mistaken  : it  was  thought  that  he  meant  only  to  electrify  his 
readers,  lay  an  accumulation  of  surprising  horrors,  in  a novel 
of  the  Mrs.  Radcliffe  fashion.  He  felt,  in  consequence,  dis- 
couraged to  proceed  ; and  finally  abandoned  it. 

Schiller  was,  in  fact,  growing  tired  of  fictitious  writing. 
Imagination  was  with  him  a strong,  not  an  exclusive,  perhaps 
not  even  a predominating  faculty  : in  the  sublimest  flights  of 
his  genius,  intellect  is  a quality  as  conspicuous  as  any  other  ; 
we  are  frequently  not  more  delighted  with  the  grandeur  of 
the  drapery  in  which  he  clothes  his  thoughts,  than  with  the 
grandeur  of  the  thoughts  themselves.  To  a mind  so  restless, 
the  cultivation  of  all  its  powers  was  a peremptory  want  ; in 
one  so  earnest,  the  love  of  truth  was  sure  to  be  among  its 
strongest  passions.  Even  while  revelling,  with  unworn  ardour, 
in  the  dreamy  scenes  of  the  Imagination,  he  had  often  cast  a 
longing  look,  and  sometimes  made  a hurried  inroad,  into  the 
calmer  provinces  of  reason  : but  the  first  effervescence  of 
youth  was  past,  and  now  more  than  ever,  the  love  of  contem- 
plating or  painting  things  as  they  should  be,  began  to  yield 
to  the  love  of  knowing  things  as  they  are.  The  tendency  of  his 
mind  was  gradually  changing  ; he  was  about  to  enter  on  a new 
held  of  enterprise,  where  new  triumphs  awaited  him. 

For  a time  he  had  hesitated  what  to  choose  ; at  length  he 
began  to  think  of  History.  As  a leading  object  of  pursuit, 
this  promised  him  peculiar  advantages.  It  was  new  to  him  ; 
and  fitted  to  employ  some  of  his  most  valuable  gifts.  It  was 
grounded  on  reality,  for  which,  as  we  have  said,  his  taste  was 
now  becoming  stronger  ; its  mighty  revolutions  and  events, 
and  the  commanding  characters  that  figure  in  it,  would  like- 
wise present  him  with  things  great  and  moving,  for  which  his 
taste  had  always  been  strong.  As  recording  the  past  trans- 
actions, and  indicating  the  prospects  of  nations,  it  could  not 
fail  to  be  delightful  to  one,  for  whom  not  only  human  nature 


88 


TILE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


was  a matter  of  most  fascinating  speculation,  but  who  looked 
on  all  mankind  with  the  sentiments  of  a brother,  feeling  truly 
what  he  often  said,  ‘ that  he  had  no  dearer  wish  than  to  see 
every  living  mortal  happy  and  contented  with  his  lot.  To  all 
these  advantages  another  of  a humbler  sort  was  added,  but 
which  the  nature  of  his  situation  forbade  him  to  lose  sight  of. 
The  study  of  History,  while  it  afforded  him  a subject  of  con- 
tinuous and  regular  exertion,  would  also  afford  him,  what 
was  even  more  essential,  the  necessary  competence  of  income 
for  which  he  felt  reluctant  any  longer  to  depend  on  the  re- 
sources of  poetry,  but  which  the  produce  of  his  pen  was  now 
the  only  means  he  had  of  realising. 

For  these  reasons,  he  decided  on  commencing  the  business 
of  historian.  The  composition  of  Don  Carlos  had  already  led 
him  to  investigate  the  state  of  Spain  under  Philip  H.  ; and, 
being  little  satisfied  with  Watson’s  clear  but  shallow  Work 
on  that  reign,  he  had  turned  to  the  original  sources  of  in- 
formation, the  writings  of  Grotius,  Strada,  He  Thou,  and 
many  others.  Investigating  these  with  his  usual  fidelity  and 
eagerness,  the  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands  had,  by  degrees,  be- 
come familiar  to  his  thoughts  ; distinct  in  many  parts  where 
it  was  previously  obscure  ; and  attractive,  as  it  naturally  must 
be  to  a temper  such  as  his.  He  now  determined  that  his  first 
historical  performance  should  be  a narrative  of  that  event. 
He  resolved  to  explore  the  minutest  circumstance  of  its  rise 
and  progress  ; to  arrange  the  materials  he  might  collect,  in  a 
more  philosophical  order ; to  interweave  with  them  the  gen- 
eral opinions  he  had  formed,  or  was  forming,  on  many  points 
of  polity,  and  national  or  individual  character  ; and,  if  possi- 
ble, to  animate  the  whole  with  that  warm  sympathy,  which,  in 
a lover  of  Freedom,  this  most  glorious  of  her  triumphs  natu- 
rally called  forth. 

In  the  filling-up  of  such  an  outline,  there  was  scope  enough 
for  diligence.  But  it  was  not  in  Schiller’s  nature  to  content 
himself  with  ordinary  efforts  ; no  sooner  did  a project  take 
hold  of  his  mind,  than,  rallying  round  it  all  liis  accomplish- 
ments and  capabilities,  he  stretched  it  out  into  something  so 
magnificent  and  comprehensive,  that  little  less  than  a lifetime 


SCHILLER  AT  DRESDEN. 


89 


would  have  been  sufficient  to  effect  it.  This  History  of  the 
Revolt  of  the  Netherlands,  which  formed  his  chief  study,  he 
looked  upon  but  as  one  branch  of  the  great  subject  he  was 
yet  destined  to  engage  with.  History  at  large,  in  all  its 
bearings,  was  now  his  final  aim  ; and  his  mind  was  continu- 
ally occupied  with  plans  for  acquiring,  improving,  and  diffus- 
ing the  knowledge  of  it. 

Of  these  plans  many  never  reached  a describable  shape  ; very 
few  reached  even  partial  execution.  One  of  the  latter  sort 
was  an  intended  History  of  the  most  remarkable  Conspiracies 
and  Revolutions  in  the  Middle  and  Later  Ages.  A first  volume 
of  the  work  was  published  in  1787.  Schiller’s  part  in  it  was 
trifling  ; scarcely  more  than  that  of  a translator  and  editor. 
St.  Real’s  Conspiracy  of  Bedmar  against  Venice , here  furnished 
with  an  extended  introduction,  is  the  best  piece  in  the  book. 
Indeed,  St.  Real  seems  first  to  have  set  him  on  this  task  : the 
Abbe  had  already  signified  his  predilection  for  plots  and 
revolutions,  and  given  a fine  sample  of  his  powers  in  treating 
such  matters.  What  Schiller  did  was  to  expand  this  idea, 
and  communicate  a systematic  form  to  it.  His  work  might 
have  been  curious  and  valuable,  had  it  been  completed ; but 
the  pressure  of  other  engagements,  the  necessity  of  limiting 
his  views  to  the  Netherlands,  prevented  this  for  the  present ; 
it  was  afterwards  forgotten,  and  never  carried  farther. 

Such  were  Schiller’s  occupations  while  at  Dresden  ; their 
extent  and  variety  are  proof  enough  that  idleness  was  not 
among  his  vices.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  opposite  extreme  in 
which  he  erred.  He  wrote  and  thought  with  an  impetuosity 
beyond  what  nature  always  could  endure.  His  intolerance  of 
interruptions  first  put  him  on  the  plan  of  studying  by  night  ; 
an  alluring  but  pernicious  practice,  which  began  at  Dresden, 
and  was  never  afterwards  forsaken.  His  recreations  breathed 
a similar  spirit.  ; he  loved  to  be  much  alone,  and  strongly 
moved.  The  banks  of  the  Elbe  were  the  favourite  resort  of 
his  mornings : here  wandering  in  solitude  amid  groves  and 
lawns,  and  green  and  beautiful  places,  he  abandoned  his 
ruiud  to>  delicious  musings  ; watched  the  fitful  current  of  his 


90 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


thoughts,  as  they  came  sweeping  through  his  soul  in  their 
vague,  fantastic,  gorgeous  forms  ; pleased  himself  with  the 
transient  images  of  memory  and  hope  ; or  meditated  on  the 
cares  and  studies  which  had  lately  been  employing,  and  were 
again  soon  to  employ  him.  At  times,  he  might  be  seen  float- 
ing on  the  river  in  a gondola,  feasting  himself  with  the  loveli- 
ness of  earth  and  sky.  He  delighted  most  to  be  there  when 
tempests  were  abroad ; his  unquiet  spirit  found  a solace  in 
the  expression  of  his  own  unrest  on  the  face  of  Nature ; 
danger  lent  a charm  to  his  situation  ; he  felt  in  harmony  with 
the  scene,  when  the  rack  was  sweeping  stormfullv  across  the 
heavens,  and  the  foi'ests  were  sounding  in  the  breeze,  and  the 
river  was  rolling  its  chafed  waters  into  wild  eddying  heaps. 

Yet  before  the  darkness  summoned  him  exclusively  to  his 
tasks,  Schiller  commonly  devoted  a portion  of  his  day  to  the 
pleasures  of  society.  Could  he  have  found  enjoyment  in  the 
flatteries  of  admiring  hospitality,  his  present  fame  would  have 
procured  them  for  him  in  abundance.  But  these  things  were 
not  to  Schiller’s  taste.  His  opinion  of  the  ‘ flesh-flies  ’ of  Leip- 
zig we  have  already  seen  : he  retained  the  same  sentiments 
throughout  all  his  life.  The  idea  of  being  what  we  call  a 
lion  is  offensive  enough  to  any  man,  of  not  more  than  common 
vanity,  or  less  than  common  understanding  ; it  was  doubly 
offensive  to  him.  His  pride  and  his  modesty  alike  forbade  it. 
The  delicacy  of  his  nature,  aggravated  into  shyness  by  his  edu- 
cation and  his  habits,  rendered  situations  of  display  more  than 
usually  painful  to  him  ; the  digito  praetereuntium  was  a sort  of 
celebration  he  was  far  from  coveting.  In  the  circles  of  fashion 
he  appeared  unwillingly,  and  seldom  to  advantage  : their  glit- 
ter and  parade  were  foreign  to  his  disposition  ; their  strict 
ceremonial  cramped  the  play  of  his  mind.  Hemmed  in,  as  by 
invisible  fences,  among  the  intricate  barriers  of  etiquette,  so 
feeble,  so  inviolable,  he  felt  constrained  and  helpless  ; alter- 
nately chagrined  and  indignant.  It  was  the  giant  among  pig- 
mies ; Gulliver,  in  Lilliput,  tied  down  by  a thousand  pack- 
threads. But  there  were  more  congenial  minds,  with  whom 
he  could  associate  ; more  familiar  scenes,  in  which  he  found 
the  pleasures  he  was  seeking.  Here  Schiller  was  himself  ; 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


91 


frank,  unembarrassed,  pliant  to  the  humour  of  the  hour.  His 
conversation  was  delightful,  abounding  at  once  in  rare  and 
simple  charms.  Besides  the  intellectual  riches  which  it  car- 
ried with  it,  there  was  that  flow  of  kindliness  and  unaffected 
good  humour,  which  can  render  dulness  itself  agreeable.  Schil- 
ler had  many  friends  in  Dresden,  who  loved  him  as  a man, 
while  they  admired  him  as  a writer.  Their  intercourse  'was  of 
the  kind  he  liked,  sober,  as  well  as  free  and  mirthful.  It  was 
the  careless,  calm,  honest  effusion  of  his  feelings  that  he 
wanted,  not  the  noisy  tumults  and  coarse  delirium  of  dissipa- 
tion. For  this,  under  any  of  its  forms,  he  at  no  time  showed 
the  smallest  relish. 

A visit  to  Weimar  had  long  been  one  of  Schiller’s  projects  : 
he  now  first  accomplished  it  in  1787.  Saxony  had  been,  for 
ages,  the  Attica  of  Germany  ; and  Weimar  had,  of  late,  be- 
come its  Athens.  In  this  literary  city,  Schiller  found  what  he 
expected,  sympathy  and  brotherhood  with  men  of  kindred 
minds.  To  Goethe  he  was  not  introduced  ; 1 but  Herder  and 
Wieland  received  him  with  a cordial  welcome  ; with  the  latter 
he  soon  formed  a most  friendly  intimacy.  Wieland,  the  Nestor 
of  German  letters,  was  grown  gray  in  the  service  : Schiller  rev- 
erenced him  as  a father,  and  he  was  treated  by  him  as  a son. 
‘ We  shall  have  bright  hours,’  he  said  ; ‘ Wieland  is  still  young, 
when  he  loves.’  Wieland  had  long  edited  the  Deutsche  Mer- 
cur : in  consequence  of  their  connexion,  Schiller  now  took  part 
in  contributing  to  that  work.  Some  of  his  smaller  poems,  one 
or  two  fragments  of  the  History  of  the  Netherlands,  and  the 
Letters  on  Don  Carlos,  first  appeared  here.  His  own  Thalia 
still  continued  to  come  out  at  Leipzig.  With  these  for  his  in- 
cidental employments,  Avith  the  Belgian  Revolt  for  his  chief 
study,  and  the  best  society  in  Germany  for  his  leisure,  Schiller 
felt  no  wish  to  leave  Weimar.  The  place  and  what  it  held 
contented  him  so  much,  that  he  thought  of  selecting  it  for  his 
permanent  abode.  ‘ You  know  the  men,’  he  writes,  ‘of  whom 
Germany  is  proud ; a Herder,  a Wieland,  with  their  brethren  ; 
and  one  wall  uoav  encloses  me  and  them.  What  excellencies 

1 Doering  says,  ‘ Goethe  was  at  this  time  absent  in  Italy  ; ’ an  error,  as 
will  by  and  by  appear. 


92 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


are  in  Weimar ! In  this  city,  at  least  in  this  territory.  I mean 
to  settle  for  life,  and  at  length  once  more  to  get  a country.’ 

So  occupied  and  so  intentioned,  he  continued  to  reside  at 
Weimar.  Some  months  after  his  arrival,  he  received  an  invi- 
tation from  his  early  patroness  and  kind  protectress,  Madam 
von  Wollzogen,  to  come  and  visit  her  at  Bauerbach.  Schiller 
went  accordingly  to  this  his  ancient  city  of  refuge  ; he  again 
found  all  the  warm  hospitality,  which  he  had  of  old  experi- 
enced when  its  character  could  less  be  mistaken  ; but  his  ex- 
cursion thither  produced  more  lasting  effects  than  this.  At 
Rudolstadt,  where  he  stayed  for  a time  on  occasion  of  this 
journey,  he  met  with  a new  friend.  It  was  here  that  he  first 
saw  the  Fraulein  Lengefeld,  a lady  whose  attractions  made 
him  loth  to  leave  Rudolstadt,  and  eager  to  return. 

Next  year  he  did  return  ; he  lived  from  May  till  November 
there  or  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  was  busy  as  usual,  and 
he  visited  the  Lengefeld  family  almost  every  day.  Schiller’s 
views  on  marriage,  his  longing  for  ‘ a civic  and  domestic  ex- 
istence,’ we  already  know.  ‘ To  be  united  with  a person,’  he 
had  said,  ‘that  shares  our  sorrows  and  our  joys,  that  responds 
to  our  feelings,  that  moulds  herself  so  pliantly,  so  closely  to 
our  humours  ; reposing  on  her  calm  and  warm  affection,  to 
relax  our  spirit  from  a thousand  distractions,  a thousand  wild 
wishes  and  tumultuous  passions  ; to  dream  away  all  the  bit- 
terness of  fortune,  in  the  bosom  of  domestic  enjoyment ; this 
is  the  true  delight  of  life.’  Some  years  had  elapsed  since  he 
expressed  these  sentiments,  which  time  had  confirmed,  not 
weakened  : the  presence  of  the  Fraulein  Lengefeld  awoke 
them  into  fresh  activity.  He  loved  this  lady ; the  return  of 
love,  with  which  she  honoured  him,  diffused  a sunshine  over 
all  his  troubled  world  ; and,  if  the  wish  of  being  hers  excited 
more  impatient  thoughts  about  the  settlement  of  his  condi- 
tion, it  also  gave  him  fresh  strength  to  attain  it.  He  was  full 
of  occupation,  while  in  Rudolstadt ; ardent,  serious,  but  not 
unhappy.  His  literary  projects  were  proceeding  as  before  ; 
and,  besides  the  enjoyment  of  virtuous  love,  he  had  that  of 
intercourse  with  many  worthy  and  some  kindred  minds. 

Among  these,  the  chief  in  all  respects  was  Goethe.  It  was 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


93 


during  liis  present  visit,  that  Schiller  first  met  with  this  illus- 
trious person  ; concerning  whom,  both  by  reading  and  report, 
his  expectations  had  been  raised  so  high.  No  two  men,  both 
of  exalted  genius,  could  be  possessed  of  more  different  sorts 
of  excellence,  than  the  two  that  were  now  bi’ought  together, 
in  a large  company  of  their  mutual  friends.  The  English 
reader  may  form  some  approximate  conception  of  the  con- 
trast, by  figuring  an  interview  between  Shakspeare  and  Mil- 
ton.  How  gifted,  how  diverse  in  their  gifts  ! The  mind  of 
the  one  plays  calmly,  in  its  capricious  and  inimitable  graces, 
over  all  the  provinces  of  human  interest ; the  other  concen- 
trates powers  as  vast,  but  far  less  various,  on  a few  subjects  ; 
the  one  is  catholic,  the  other  is  sectarian.  The  first  is  en- 
dowed with  an  all-comprehending  spirit  ; skilled,  as  if  by  per- 
sonal experience,  in  all  the  modes  of  human  passion  and  opin- 
ion ; therefore,  tolerant  of  all ; peaceful,  collected  ; fighting 
for  no  class  of  men  or  principles  ; rather  looking  on  the  world, 
and  the  various  battles  waging  in  it,  with  the  quiet  eye  of  one 
already  reconciled  to  the  futility  of  their  issues  ; but  pouring- 
over  all  the  forms  of  many-coloured  life  the  light  of  a deep 
and  subtle  intellect,  and  the  decorations  of  an  overflowing 
fancy  ; and  allowing  men  and  things  of  every  shape  and  hue 
to.  have  their  own  free  scope  in  his  conception,  as  they  have  it 
in  the  world  where  Providence  has  placed  them.  The  other 
is  earnest,  devoted  ; struggling  with  a thousand  mighty  proj- 
ects of  improvement ; feeling  more  intensely  as  he  feels  more 
narrowly  ; rejecting  vehemently,  choosing  vehemently  ; at  war 
with  the  one  half  of  things,  in  love  with  the.  other  half  ; hence 
dissatisfied,  impetuous,  without  internal  rest,  and  scarcely 
conceiving  the  possibility  of  such  a state.  Apart  from  the 
difference  of  their  opinions  and  mental  culture,  Shakspeare 
and  Milton  seem  to  have  stood  in  some  such  relation  as  this 
to  each  other,  in  regard  to  the  primary  structure  of  their 
minds.  So  likewise,  in  many  points,  was  it  with  Goethe  and 
Schiller.  The  external  circumstances  of  the  two  were,  more- 
over, such  as  to  augment  their  several  peculiarities.  Gtoethe 
was  in  his  thirty-ninth  year ; and  had  long  since  found  his 
proper  rank  and  settlement  in  life.  Schiller  was  ten  years 


04 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


younger,  and  still  without  a fixed  destiny  ; on  both  of  which 
accounts,  his  fundamental  scheme  of  thought,  the  principles 
by  which  he  judged  and  acted,  and  maintained  his  individ- 
uality, although  they  might  be  settled,  were  less  likely  to  be 
sobered  and  matured.  In  these  circumstances  we  can  hardly 
wonder  that  on  Schiller’s  part  the  first  impression  was  not 
very  pleasant.  Goethe  sat  talking  of  Italy,  and  art,  and 
travelling,  and  a thousand  other  subjects,  with  that  flow  of 
brilliant  and  deep  sense,  sarcastic  humour,  knowledge,  fancy 
and  good  nature,  which  is  said  to  render  him  .the  best  talker 
now  alive. 1 Schiller  looked  at  him  in  quite  a different  mood  ; 
he  felt  his  natural  constraint  increased  under  the  influence  of 
a man  so  opposite  in  character,  so  jjotent  in  resources,  so  sin- 
gular and  so  expert  in  using  them  ; a man  whom  he  could 
not  agree  with,  and  knew  not  how  to  contradict.  Soon  after 
their  interview,  he  thus  writes  : 

‘ On  the  whole,  this  personal  meeting  has  not  at  all  dimin- 
ished the  idea,  great  as  it  was,  which  I had  previously  formed 
of  Goethe  ; but  I doubt  whether  we  shall  ever  come  into  any 
close  communication  with  each  other.  Much  that  still  inter- 
ests me  has  already  had  its  epoch  with  him.  His  whole  nat- 
ure is,  from  its  very  origin,  otherwise  constructed  than  mine  ; 
his  world  is  not  my  world ; our  modes  of  .conceiving  things 
appear  to  be  essentially  different.  From  such  a combination, 
no  secure,  substantial  intimacy  can  result.  Time  will  try.’ 

The  aid  of  time  was  not,  in  fact,  unnecessary.  On  the  part 
of  Goethe  there  existed  prepossessions  no  less  hostile  ; and 
derived  from  sources  older  and  deeper  than  the  present  tran- 
sitory meeting,  to  the  discontents  of  which  they  probably  con- 
tributed. He  himself  has  lately  stated  them  with  his  accustomed 
frankness  and  good  humour,  in  a paper,  part  of  which  some 
readers  may  peruse  with  an  interest  more  than  merely  bio- 
graphical. 

‘ On  my  return  from  Italy,’  he  says,  * where  I had  been  en- 
deavouring to  train  myself  to  greater  purity  and  precision  in 
all  departments  of  art,  not  heeding  what  meanwhile  was  going 
on  in  Germany,  I found  here  some  older  and  some  more  re- 

1 1S25. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


95 


cent  works  of  poetry,  enjoying  kiglr  esteem  and  wide  circula- 
tion, while  unhappily  their  character  to  me  was  utterly  offen- 
sive. I shall  only  mention  Heinse’s  Ardinghello  and  Schiller’s 
Robbers.  The  first  I hated  for  its  having  undertaken  to  ex- 
hibit sensuality  and  mystical  abstruseness,  ennobled  and  sup- 
ported by  creative  art : the  last,  because  in  it,  the  very  para- 
doxes moral  and  dramatic,  from  which  I was  struggling  to  get 
liberated,  had  been  laid  hold,  of  by  a powerful  though  an  im- 
mature genius,  and  poured  in  a boundless  rushing  flood  over 
all  our  country. 

‘ Neither  of  these  gifted  individuals  did  I blame  for  what 
he  had  performed  or  purposed  : it  is  the  nature  and  the  privi- 
lege of  every  mortal  to  attempt  working  in  his  own  peculiar 
way  ; he  attempts  it  first  without  culture,  scarcely  with  the 
consciousness  of  what  he  is  about  ; and  continues  it  with 
consciousness  increasing  as  his  culture  increases  ; whereby  it 
happens  that  so  many  exquisite  and  so  many  paltry  things  are 
to  be  found  circulating  in  the  world,  and  one  perplexity  is 
seen  to  rise  from  the  ashes  of  another.  , 

‘ But  the  rumour  which  these  strange  productions  had  ex- 
cited over  Germany,  the  approbation  paid  to  them  by  every 
class  of  persons,  from  the  wild  student  to  the  polished  court- 
lady,  frightened  me  ; for  I now  thought  all  my  labour  was  to 
prove  in  vain  ; the  objects,  and  the  way  of  handling  them,  to 
which  I had  been  exercising  all  my  powers,  appeared  as  if 
defaced  and  set  aside.  And  what  grieved  me  still  more  was, 
that  all  the  friends'  connected  with  me,  Heinrich  Meyer  and 
Moritz,  as  well  as  their  fellow-artists  Tischbein  and  Bury, 
seemed  in  danger  of  the  like  contagion.  I was  much  hurt. 
Had  it  been  possible,  I would  have  abandoned  the  study  of 
creative  art,  and  the  practice  of  poetry  altogether ; for  where 
was  the  prospect  of  surpassing  those  performances  of  genial 
worth  and  wild  form,  in  the  qualities  which  recommended 
them  ? Conceive  my  situation.  It  had  been  my  object  and 
my  task  to  cherish  and  impart  the  purest  exhibitions  of 
poetic  art ; and  here  was  I hemmed  in  between  Ardinghello 
and  Franz  von  Moor  ! 

‘ It  happened  also  about  this  time  that  Moritz  returned  from 


96 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRTEDRIC'Il  SCHILLER. 


Italy,  and  stayed  with  me  awhile  ; during  which,  he  violently 
confirmed  himself  and  me  in  these  persuasions.  I avoided 
Schiller,  who  was  now  at  Weimar,  in  my  neighbourhood.  The 
appearance  of  Don  Carlos  was  not  calculated  to  approximate 
us  ; the  attempts  of  our  common  friends  I resisted  ; and  thus 
we  still  continued  to  go  on  our  way  apart.’ 

By  degrees,  however,  both  parties  found  that  they  had  been 
mistaken.  The  course  of  accidents  brought  many  things  to 
light,  which  had  been  hidden  ; the  time  character  of  each  be- 
came unfolded  more  and  more  completely  to  the  other  ; and  the 
cold,  measured  tribute  of  respect  was  on  both  sides  animated 
and  exalted  by  feelings  of  kindness,  and  ultimately  of  affec- 
tion. Ere  long,  Schiller  had  by  gratifying  proofs  discovered 
that  ‘ this  Goethe  was  a very  worthy  man  ; ’ and  Goethe,  in  his 
love  of  genius,  and  zeal  for  the  interests  of  literature,  was  per- 
forming for  Schiller  the  essential  duties  of  a friend,  even  while 
his  personal  repugnance  continued  unabated. 

A strict  similarity  of  characters  is  not  necessary,  or  perhaps 
very  favourable,  to  friendship.  To  render  it  complete,  each 
party  must  no  doubt  be  competent  to  understand  the  other  ; 
both  must  be  possessed  of  dispositions  kindred  in  their  great 
lineaments  : but  the  pleasure  of  comparing  our  ideas  and 
emotions  is  heightened  when  there  is  ‘likeness  in  unlikeness.’ 
The  same  sentiments,  different  opinions,  Bousseau  conceives  to 
be  the  best  material  of  friendship  : reciprocity  of  kind  words 
and  actions  is  more  effectual  than  all.  Luther  loved  Melanc- 
thon  ; Johnson  was  not  more  the  friend  of  Edmund  Burke 
than  of  poor  old  Dr.  Levitt.  Goethe  and  Schiller  met  again  ; 
as  they  ultimately  came  to  live  together,  and  to  see  each 
other  oftener,  they  liked  each  other  better  ; they  became 
associates,  friends  ; and  the  harmony  of  them  intercourse, 
strengthened  by  many  subsequent  communities  of  object,  was 
never  interrupted,  till  death  put  an  end  to  it.  Goethe,  in  his 
time,  has  done  many  glorious  things ; but  few  on  which  he 
should  look  back  with  greater  pleasure  than  his  treatment  of 
Schiller.  Literary  friendships  are  said  to  be  precarious,  and 
of  rare  occurrence  : the  rivalry  of  interest  disturbs  them  con- 
tinuance ; a rivalry  greater,  where  the  subject  of  competition 


SCHILLER  AT  WELHAR. 


97 


is  one  so  vague,  impalpable  and  fluctuating,  as  the  favour  of 
the  public  ; where  the  feeling  to  be  gratified  is  one  so  nearly 
allied  to  vanity,  the  most  irritable,  arid  and  selfish  feeling  of 
the  human  heart.  Had  Goethe’s  prime  motive  been  the  love 
of  fame,  he  must  have  viewed  with  repugnance,  not  the  mis- 
direction but  the  talents  of  the  rising  genius,  advancing  with 
such  rapid  strides  to  dispute  with  him  the  palm  of  intellect- 
ual primacy,  nay  as  the  million  thought,  already  in  possession 
of  it  ; and  if  a sense  of  his  own  dignity  had  withheld  him 
from  offering  obstructions,  or  uttering  any  whisper  of  dis- 
content, there  is  none  but  a truly  patrician  spirit  that  would 
cordially  have  offered  aid.  To  being  secretly  hostile  and 
openly  indifferent,  the  next  resource  was  to  enact  the  patron  ; 
to  solace  vanity,  by  helping  the  rival  whom  he  could  not  hin- 
der, and  who  could  do  without  his  help.  Goethe  adopted 
neither  of  these  plans.  It  reflects  much  credit  on  him  that 
he  acted  as  he  did.  Eager  to  forward  Schiller’s  views  by  ex- 
erting all  the  influence  within  his  power,  he  succeeded  in 
effecting  this  ; and  what  was  still  more  difficult,  in  suffering 
the  character  of  benefactor  to  merge  in  that  of  equal.  They 
became  not  friends  only,  but  fellow-labourers  : a connection 
productive  of  important  consequences  in  the  history  of  both, 
particularly  of  the  younger  and  more  undirected  of  the  two. 

Meanwhile  the  History  of  the  Revolt  of  the  United  Nether- 
lands was  in  part  before  the  world ; the  first  volume  came 
out  in  1788.  Schiller’s  former  writings  had  given  proofs 
of  powers  so  great  and  various,  such  an  extent  of  general  in- 
tellectual strength,  and  so  deep  an  acquaintance,  both  practi- 
cal and  scientific,  with  the  art  of  composition,  that  in  a sub- 
ject like  history,  no  ordinary  work  was  to  be  looked  for  from 
his  hands.  With  diligence  in  accumulating  materials,  and 
patient  care  in  elaborating  them,  he  could  scarcely  fail  to  at- 
tain distinguished  excellence.  The  present  volume  was  well 
calculated  to  fulfil  such  expectations.  The  Revolt  of  the  Neth- 
erlands possesses  all  the  common  requisites  of  a good  history, 
and  many  which  are  in  some  degree  peculiar  to  itself.  The 
information  it  conveys  is  minute  and  copious  ; we  have  all  the 

7 


98 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


circumstances  of  the  case,  remote  and  near,  set  distinctly  be- 
fore us.  Yet,  such  is  the  skill  of  the  arrangement,  these  are 
at  once  briefly  and  impressively  presented.  The  work  is  not 
stretched  out  into  a continuous  narrative  ; but  gathered  up 
into  masses,  which  are  successively  exhibited  to  view,  the 
minor  facts  being  grouped  around  some  leading  one,  to  which, 
as  to  the  central  object,  our  attention  is  chiefly  directed.  This 
method  of  combining  the  details  of  events,  of  proceeding  as 
it  were,  per  saltum,  from  eminence  to  eminence,  and  thence 
surveying  the  surrounding  scene,  is  undoubtedly  the  most 
philosophical  of  any  : but  few  men  are  equal  to  the  task  of 
effecting  it  rightly.  It  must  be  executed  by  a mind  able  to 
look  on  all  its  facts  at  once  ; to  disentangle  their  perplexities, 
referring  each  to  its  proper  head  ; and  to  choose,  often  with 
extreme  address,  the  station  from  which  the  reader  is  to  view 
them.  Without  this,  or  with  this  inadequately  done,  a work 
on  such  a plan  would  be  intolerable.  Schiller  has  accom- 
plished it  in  great  perfection  ; the  whole  scene  of  affairs  was 
evidently  clear  before  his  own  eye,  and  he  did  not  want  ex- 
pertness to  disci’iminate  and  seize  its  distinctive  features. 
The  bond  of  cause  and  consequence  he  never  loses  sight  of  ; 
and  over  each  successive  portion  of  his  narrative  he  poms 
that  flood  of  intellectual  and  imaginative  brilliancy,  which  all 
his  prior  writings  had  displayed.  His  reflections,  expressed 
or  implied,  are  the  fruit  of  strong,  comprehensive,  penetrating 
thought.  His  descriptions  are  vivid  ; his  characters  are  stud- 
ied with  a keen  sagacity,  and  set  before  us  in  their  most  strik- 
ing points  of  view  ; those  of  Egmont  and  Orange  occur  to 
every  reader  as  a rare  union  of  perspicacity  and  eloquence. 
The  work  has  a look  of  order  ; of  beauty  joined  to  calm  re- 
posing force.  Had  it  been  completed,  it  might  have  ranked 
as  the  very  best  of  Schiller’s  prose  compositions.  But  no 
second  volume  ever  came  to  light ; and  the  first  concludes  at 
the  entrance  of  Alba  into  Brussels.  Two  fragments  alone, 
the  Siege  of  Antwerp,  and  the  Passage  of  Alba’s  Army,  both 
living  pictures,  show  us  still  farther  what  he  might  have  done 
had  he  proceeded.  The  surpassing  and  often  liighly-pict- 
uresque  movements  of  this  War,  the  devotedness  of  the  Dutch, 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


99 


their  heroic  achievement  of  liberty,  were  not  destined  to  be 
painted  by  the  glowing  pen  of  Schiller,  whose  heart  and 
mind  were  alike  so  qualified  to  do  them  justice.1 

The  accession  of  reputation,  which  this  work  procured  its 
author,  was  not  the  only  or  the  principal  advantage  he  derived 
from  it.  Eichhorn,  Professor  of  History,  was  at  this  time 
about  to  leave  the  University  of  Jena  : Goethe  had  already 
introduced  his  new  acquaintance  Schiller  to  the  special  notice 
of  Amelia,  the  accomplished  regent  of  Saclisen-Weimar ; he 
now  joined  with  Yoigt,  the  head  Chaplain  of  the  Court,  in 
soliciting  the  vacant  chair  for  him.  Seconded  by  the  general 
voice,  and  the  persuasion  of  the  Princess  herself,  he  succeeded. 
Schiller  was  appointed  Professor  at  Jena  ; he  went  thither  in 
1789. 

With  Schiller’s  removal  to  Jena  begins  a new  epoch  in  his 
public  and  private  life.  His  connection  with  Goethe  here 
first  ripened  into  friendship,  and  became  secured  and  ce- 
mented by  frequency  of  intercourse.2  Jena  is  but  a few  miles 
distant  from  Weimar  ; and  the  two  friends,  both  settled  in 
public  offices  belonging  to  the  same  Government,  had  daily 
opportunities  of  interchanging  visits.  Schiller’s  wanderings 
were  now  concluded  : with  a heart  tired  of  so  fluctuating  an 
existence,  but  not  despoiled  of  its  capacity  for  relishing  a 
calmer  one  ; with  a mind  experienced  by  much  and  varied 
intercourse  with  men  ; full  of  knowledge  and  of  plans  to  turn 
it  to  account,  he  could  now  repose  himself  in  the  haven  of 
domestic  comforts,  and  look  forward  to  days  of  more  un- 
broken exertion,  and  more  wholesome  and  permanent  enjoy- 

1 If  we  mistake  not,  Madame  de  Stael,  in  her  Revolution  Francctise, 
had  this  performance  of  Schiller’s  in  her  eye.  Her  work  is  constructed 
on  a similar  though  a rather  looser  plan  of  arrangement : the  execution 
of  it  hears  the  same  relation  to  that  of  Schiller ; it  is  less  irregular ; 
more  ambitious  in  its  rhetoric  ; inferior  in  precision,  though  often  not 
in  force  of  thought  and  imagery'. 

1 The  obstacles  to  their  union  have  already  been  described  in  the 
words  of  Goethe  ; the  steps  by  which  these  were  surmounted,  are  de- 
scribed by  him  in  the  same  paper  with  equal  minuteness  and  effect.  It 
is  interesting,  but  cannot  be  inserted  here.  See  Appendix,  No.  3. 


100 


THE  LIFE  CF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


ment  than  hitherto  had  fallen  to  liis  lot.  In  the  February 
following  liis  settlement  at  Jena,  be  obtained  the  hand  of 
Fraulein  Lengefeld  ; a happiness,  with  the  prospect  of  which 
he  had  long  associated  all  the  pleasures  which  he  hoped  for 
from  the  future.  A few  months  after  this  event,  he  thus  ex- 
presses himself,  in  writing  to  a friend  : 

‘ Life  is  quite  a different  thing  by  the  side  of  a beloved 
wife,  than  so  forsaken  and  alone ; even  in  Summer.  Beau- 
tiful Nature  ! I now  for  the  first  time  fully  enjoy  it,  live  in  it. 
The  world  again  clothes  itself  around  me  in  poetic  forms  ; 
old  feelings  are  again  awakening  in  my  breast.  What  a life 
I am  leading  here  ! I look  wTith  a glad  mind  around  me  ; 
my  heart  finds  a perennial  contentment  without  it ; my  spirit 
so  fine,  so  refreshing  a nourishment.  My  existence  is  set- 
tled in  harmonious  composure  ; not  strained  and  impas- 
sioned, but  peaceful  and  clear.  I look  to  my  future  destiny 
with  a cheerful  heart  ; now  when  standing  at  the  wisked-for 
goal,  I wonder  with  myself  how  it  all  has  happened,  so  far 
beyond  my  expectations.  Fate  has  conquered  the  difficulties 
for  me  ; it  has,  I may  say,  forced  me  to  the  mark.  From 
the  future  I expect  everything.  A few  years,  and  I shall  live 
in  the  full  enjoyment  of  my  spirit ; nay,  I think  my  very  youth 
will  be  renewed  ; an  inward  poetic  life  will  give  it  me  again.’ 
To  what  extent  these  smiling  hopes  were  realised  will  be 
seen  in  the  next  and  concluding  Part  of  this  Biography. 


PART  III. 


FROM  HIS  SETTLEMENT  AT  JENA  TO  HIS  DEATH. 

(1790-1805.) 

The  duties  of  bis  new  office  naturally  called  upon  Schiller  to 
devote  himself  with  double  zeal  to  History  : a subject,  which 
from  choice  he  had  already  entered  on  with  so  much  eager- 
ness. In  the  study  of  it,  we  have  seen  above  how  his  strong- 
est faculties  and  tastes  vTere  exercised  and  gratified  : and  new 
opportunities  were  now  combined  with  new  motives  for  per- 
sisting in  his  efforts.  Concerning  the  plan  or  the  success  of 
his  academical  prelections,  we  have  scarcely  any  notice  : in 
his  class,  it  is  said,  he  used  most  frequently  to  speak  extem- 
pore ; and  his  delivery  was  not  distinguished  by  fluency  or 
grace,  a circumstance  to  be  imputed  to  the  agitation  of  a pub- 
lic appearance  ; for,  as  Woltmann  assures  us,  £ the  beauty,  the 
elegance,  ease,  and  true  instructiveness  with  which  he  could 
continuously  express  himself  in  private,  were  acknowledged 
and  admired  by  all  his  friends.’  His  matter,  we  suppose, 
would  make  amends  for  these  deficiencies  of  manner  : to  judge 
from  his  introductory  lecture,  preserved  in  his  works,  with  the 
title,  What  is  Universal  History , and  with  ivhat  views  should  it  he 
studied,  there  perhaps  has  never  been  in  Europe  another  course 
of  history  sketched  out  on  principles  so  magnificent  and  phil- 
osophical.1 But  college  exercises  were  far  from  being  his 

1 Tlie  paper  entitled  Hints  on  the  Origin  of  Human  Society,  as  indi- 
cated in  the  Mosaic  Records,  the  Mission  of  Moses,  the  Laws  of  Solon  and 
Lycurgus,  are  pieces  of  the  very  highest  order  ; fnll  of  strength  and 
beauty  ; delicious  to  the  lovers  of  that  plastic  philosophy,  which  em- 
ploys itself  in  giving  form  and  life  to  the  ‘ dry  bones  ’ of  those  antique 
events,  that  lie  before  us  so  inexplicable  in  the  brief  and  enigmatic 
pages  of  then-  chroniclers.  The  Glance  over  Europe  at  the  period  of  the 


102 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


ultimate  object,  nor  did  be  rest  satisfied  with  mere  visions  of 
perfection  : the  compass  of  the  outline  he  had  traced,  for  a 
proper  Historian,  was  scarcely  greater  than  the  assiduity  with 
which  he  strove  to  fill  it  up.  His  letters  breathe  a spirit  not 
only  of  diligence  but  of  ardour  ; he  seems  intent  with  all  his 
strength  upon  this  fresh  pursuit ; and  delighted  with  the  vast 
prospects  of  untouched  and  attractive  speculation,  which  were 
opening  around  him  on  every  side.  He  professed  himself  to 
be  ‘ exceedingly  contented  with  his  business  ; 5 his  ideas  on 
the  nature  of  it  were  acquiring  both  extension  and  distinct- 
ness ; and  every  moment  of  his  leisure  was  employed  in  reduc- 
ing them  to  practice.  He  was  now  busied  with  the  History  of 
the  Thirty-Years  War. 

This  work,  which  appeared,  in  1791,  is  considered  by  the 
German  critics  as  his  chief  performance  in  this  department  of 
literature  : The  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands , the  only  one  which 
could  have  vied  with  it,  never  was  completed  ; otherwise,  in 
our  opinion,  it  might  have  been  superior.  Either  of  the  two 
would  have  sufficed  to  secure  for  Schiller  a distinguished  rank 
among  historians,  of  the  class  denominated  philosophical ; 
though  even  both  together,  they  afford  but  a feeble  exemplifi- 
cation of  the  ideas  which  he  entertained  on  the  manner  of  com- 
posing history.  In  his  view,  the  business  of  history  is  not 
merely  to  record,  but  to  interpret ; it  involves  not  only  a clear 
conception  and  a lively  exposition  of  events  and  characters, 
but  a sound,  enlightened  theory  of  individual  and  national 
morality,  a general  philosophy  of  human  life,  whereby  to  judge 
of  them,  and  measure  then-  effects.  The  historian  now  stands 
on  higher  ground,  takes  in  a wider  range  than  those  that  went 
before  him  ; he  can  now  survey  vast  tracts  of  human  action, 
and  deduce  its  laws  from  an  experience  extending  over  many 
climes  and  ages.  With  his  ideas,  moreover,  his  feelings  ought 
to  be  enlarged  : he  should  regard  the  interests  not  of  any  sect 
or  state,  but  of  mankind  ; the  progress  not  of  any  class  of  arts 
or  opinions,  but  of  universal  happiness  and  refinement.  His 

first  Crusade  ; the  Times  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  I. ; the  Troubles  in 
France,  are  also  masterly  sketches,  in  a simpler  and  more  common 
style. 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


103 


narrative,  in  short,  should  be  moulded  according  to  the 
science,  and  impregnated  with  the  liberal  spirit  of  his  time. 

Voltaire  is  generally  conceived  to  have  invented  and  intro- 
duced a new  method  of  composing  history  ; the  chief  histo- 
rians that  have  followed  him  have  been  by  way  of  eminence 
denominated  philosophical.  This  is  hardly  correct.  Voltaire 
wrote  history  with  greater  talent,  but  scarcely  with  a new 
species  of  talent : he  applied  the  ideas  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury to  the  subject ; but  in  this  there  was  nothing  radically 
new.  In  the  hands  of  a thinking  writer  history  has  always 
been  ‘ philosophy  teaching  by  experience  ; ’ that  is,  such  phi- 
losophy as  the  age  of  the  historian  has  afforded.  For  a Greek 
or  Homan,  it  was  natural  to  look  upon  events  with  an  eye 
to  their  effect  on  his  own  city  or  country  ; and  to  try  them  by 
a code  of  principles,  in  which  the  prosperity  or  extension  of 
this  formed  a leading  object.  For  a monkish  chronicler,  it 
was  natural  to  estimate  the  progress  of  affairs  by  the  number 
of  abbeys  founded  ; the  virtue  of  men  by  the  sum-total  of  do- 
nations to  the  clergy.  And  for  a thinker  of  the  present  day, 
it  is  equally  natural  to  measure  the  occurrences  of  history  by 
quite  a different  standard  : by  their  influence  upon  the  gen- 
eral destiny  of  man,  their  tendency  to  obstruct  or  to  forward 
him  in  his  advancement  towards  liberty,  knowledge,  true  re- 
ligion and  dignity  of  mind.  Each  of  these  narrators  simply 
measures  by  the  scale  which  is  considered  for  the  time  as  ex- 
pressing the  great  concerns  and  duties  of  humanity. 

Schiller’s  views  on  this  matter  were,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  of  the  most  enlarged  kind.  ‘It  seems  to  me,’  said 
he  in  one  of  his  letters,  ‘ that  in  writing  history  for  the  mod- 
erns, we  should  try  to  communicate  to  it  such  an  interest  as 
the  History  of  the  Peloponnesian  War  had  for  the  Greeks. 
Now  this  is  the  problem  : to  choose  and  arrange  your  mate- 
rials so  that,  to  interest,  they  shall  not  need  the  aid  of  deco- 
ration. We  moderns  have  a source  of  interest  at  our  disposal, 
which  no  Greek  or  Roman  was  acquainted  with,  and  which 
the  patriotic  interest  does  not  nearly  equal.  This  last,  in 
general,  is  chiefly  of  importance  for  unripe  nations,  for  the 
youth  of  the  world.  But  we  may  excite  a very  different  sort 


104 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCIULLER. 


of  interest  if  we  represent  eacli  remarkable  occurrence  that 
happened  to  men  as  of  importance  to  man.  It  is  a poor  and 
little  aim  to  write  for  one  nation  ; a philosophic  spirit  cannot 
tolerate  such  limits,  cannot  bound  its  views  to  a fonn  of 
human  nature  so  arbitrary,  fluctuating,  accidental.  The  most 
powerful  nation  is  but  a fragment ; and  thinking  minds  will 
not  grow  warm  on  its  account,  except  in  so  far  as  this  nation 
or  its  fortunes  have  been  influential  on  the  progress  of  the 
species.’ 

That  there  is  not  some  excess  in  this  comprehensive  cosmo- 
politan philosophy,  may  perhaps  be  liable  to  question.  Nature 
herself  has,  wisely  no  doubt,  partitioned  us  into  ‘ kindreds,  and 
nations,  and  tongues it  is  among  our  instincts  to  grow  warm 
in  behalf  of  our  country,  simply  for  its  own  sake  ; and  the 
business  of  Reason  seems  to  be  to  chasten  and  direct  our  in- 
stincts, never  to  destroy  them.  We  require  individuality  in 
our  attachments : the  sympathy  which  is  expanded  over  all 
men  will  commonly  be  found  so  much  attenuated  by  the  proc- 
ess, that  it  cannot  be  effective  on  any.  And  as  it  is  in  nature, 
so  it  is  in  art,  which  ought  to  be  the  image  of  it.  Universal 
philanthropy  forms  but  a precarious  and  very  powerless  rule  of 
conduct ; and  the  * progress  of  the  species  ’ will  turn  out 
equally  unfitted  for  deeply  exciting  the  imagination.  It  is 
not  with  freedom  that  we  can  sympathise,  but  with  free  men. 
There  ought,  indeed,  to  be  in  history  a spiiit  superior  to 
petty  distinctions  and  vulgar  partialities ; our  particular  affec- 
tions ought  to  be  enlightened  and  purified  ; but  they  should 
not  be  abandoned,  or,  such  is  the  condition  of  humanity,  our 
feelings  must  evaporate  and  fade  away  in  that  extreme  diffu- 
sion. Perhaps,  in  a certain  sense,  the  surest  mode  of  pleasing 
and  instructing  all  nations  is  to  write  for  one. 

This  too  Schiller  was  aware  of,  and  had  in  part  attended  to. 
Besides,  the  Thirty-Years  War  is  a subject  in  which  nationality 
of  feeling  may  be  even  wholly  spared,  better  than  in  almost 
any  other.  It  is  not  a German  but  a European  subject ; it 
forms  the  concluding  portion  of  the  Reformation,  and  this  is 
an  event  belonging  not  to  any  country  in  particular,  but  to 
the  human  race.  Yet,  if  we  mistake  not,  this  over  tendency 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


105 


to  generalisation,  botli  in  thought  and  sentiment,  has  rather 
hurt  the  present  work.  The  philosophy,  with  which  it  is  em- 
bued,  now  and  then  grows  vague  from  its  abstractness,  ineffect- 
ual from  its  refinement : the  enthusiasm  which  pervades  it,  ele- 
vated, strong,  enlightened,  would  have  told  better  on  our 
hearts,  had  it  been  confined  within  a narrower  space,  and 
directed  to  a more  specific  class  of  objects.  In  his  extreme 
attention  to  the  philosophical  aspects  of  the  period,  Schiller 
has  neglected  to  take  advantage  of  many  interesting  circum- 
stances, which  it  offered  under  other  points  of  view.  The 
Thirty-Years  War  abounds  with  what  may  be  called  pictur- 
esqueness in  its  events,  and  still  more  in  the  condition  of  the 
people  who  carried  it  on.  Harte’s  History  of  Gustavus,  a wil- 
derness which  mere  human  patience  seems  unable  to  explore, 
is  yet  enlivened  here  and  there  with  a cheerful  spot,  when  he 
tells  us  of  some  scalade  or  camisado,  or  speculates  on  troop- 
ers rendered  bullet-proof  by  art-magic.  His  chaotic  records 
have,  in  fact,  afforded  to  our  Novelist  the  raw  materials  of 
Dugald  Dalgetty,  a cavalier  of  the  most  singular  equipment, 
of  character  and  manners  which,  for  many  reasons,  merit 
study  and  description.  To  much  of  this,  though,  as  he  after- 
wards proved,  it  was  well  known  to  him,  Schiller  paid  com- 
paratively small  attention  ; his  work  has  lost  in  liveliness  by 
the  omission,  more  than  it  has  gained  in  dignity  or  instruc- 
tiveness. 

Yet,  with  all  its  imperfections,  this  is  no  ordinary  history. 
The  speculation,  it  is  true,  is  not  always  of  the  kind  we  wish  ; 
it  excludes  more  moving  or  enlivening  topics,  and  sometimes 
savours  of  the  inexperienced  theorist  who  had  passed  his  days 
remote  from  practical  statesmen  ; the  subject  has  not  sufficient 
unity  ; in  spite  of  every  effort,  it  breaks  into  fragments  towards 
the  conclusion  : but  still  there  is  an  energy,  a vigorous  beauty 
in  the  work,  which  far  more  than  redeems  its  failings.  Great 
thoughts  at  every  turn  arrest  our  attention,  and  make  us  pause 
to  confirm  or  contradict  them  ; happy  metaphors,1  some  vivid 

1 Yet  we  scarcely  meet  with  one  so  happy  as  that  in  the  Revolt  of  the 
Netherlands,  where  he  finishes  his  picture  of  the  gloomy  silence  and 
dismay  that  reigned  in  Brussels  on  the  first  entrance  of  Alba,  by  this 


106 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


descriptions  of  events  and  men,  remind  us  of  the  author  of 
Fiesco  and  Don  Carlos.  The  characters  of  Gustavus  and  Wal- 
lenstein are  finely  developed  in  the  course  of  the  narrative. 
Tilly’s  passage  of  the  Lech,  the  battles  of  Leipzig  and  Liitzen 
figure  in  our  recollection,  as  if  our  eyes  had  witnessed  them  : 
the  death  of  Gustavus  is  described  in  terms  which  might  draw 
e iron  tears  ’ from  the  eyes  of  veterans.'  If  Schiller  had  in- 
clined to  dwell  upon  the  mere  visual  or  imaginative  depart- 
ment of  his  subject,  no  man  could  have  painted  it  more 
graphically,  or  better  called  forth  our  emotions,  sympathetic 
or  romantic.  But  this,  we  have  seen,  was  not  by  any  means 
his  leading  aim. 

On  the  whole,  the  present  work  is  still  the  best  historical 
performance  which  Germany  can  boast  of.  Muller’s  histones 
are  distinguished  by  merits  of  another  sort ; by  condensing, 
in  a given  space,  and  frequently  in  lucid  order,  a quantity  of 
information,  copious  and  authentic  beyond  example : but  as 
intellectual  productions,  they"  cannot  rank  with  Schiller’s. 
Woltmann  of  Berlin  has  added  to  the  Thirty-Years  War  an- 
other work  of  equal  size,  by  way  of  continuation,  entitled 
History  of  the  Peace  of  Munster  ; with  the  first  negotiations  of 
which  treaty  the  former  concludes.  Woltmann  is  a person  of 
ability  ; but  we  dare  not  say  of  him,  what  Wieland  said  of 
Schiller,  that  by  his  first  historical  attempt  he  ‘ has  discovered 
a decided  capability  of  rising  to  a level  with  Hume,  Bobertson 
and  Gibbon.’  He  will  rather  rise  to  a level  with  Belsham  or 
Smollett. 

This  first  complete  specimen  of  Schiller’s  art  in  the  histori- 
cal department,  though  but  a small  fraction  of  what  he  meant 
to  do,  and  could  have  done,  proved  in  fact  to  be  the  last  he 
ever  undertook.  At  present  very  different  cares  awaited  him  : 
in  1791,  a fit  of  sickness  overtook  him  ; he  had  to  exchange 

striking  simile  : ‘ Now  that  the  City  had  received  the  Spanish  General 
within  its  walls,  it  had  the  air  as  of  a man  that  has  drunk  a cup  of 
poison,  and  with  shuddering  expectation  watches,  every  moment,  for 
its  deadly  agency.  ’ 

1 See  Appendix,  No.  4. 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


107 


the  inspiring  labours  of  literature  for  the  disgusts  and  disquie- 
tudes of  physical  disease.  His  disorder,  which  had  its  seat  in 
the  chest,  was  violent  and  threatening  ; and  though  nature 
overcame  it  in  the  present  instance,  the  blessing  of  entire 
health  nevermore  returned  to  him.  The  cause  of  this  severe 
affliction  seemed  to  be  the  unceasing  toil  and  anxiety  of  mind, 
in  which  his  days  had  hitherto  been  passed  : his  frame,  which, 
though  tall,  had  never  been  robust,  was  too  weak  for  the  vehe- 
ment and  sleepless  soul  that  dwelt  within  it ; and  the  habit  of 
nocturnal  study  had,  no  doubt,  aggravated  all  the  other  mis- 
chiefs. Ever  since  his  residence  at  Dresden,  his  constitution 
had  been  weakened  : but  this  rude  shock  at  once  shattered  its 
remaining  strength  ; for  a time  the  strictest  precautions  were 
required  barely  to  preserve  existence.  A total  cessation  from 
every  intellectual  effort  was  one  of  the  most  peremptory  laws 
prescribed  to  him.  Schiller’s  habits  and  domestic  circumstan- 
ces equally  rebelled  against  this  measure  ; with  a beloved  wife 
depending  on  him  for  support,  inaction  itself  could  have  pro- 
cured him  little  rest.  His  case  seemed  hard  ; his  prospects  of 
innocent  felicity  had  been  too  banefully  obscured.  Yet  in 
this  painful  and  difficult  position,  he  did  not  yield  to  despond- 
ency ; and  at  length,  assistance,  and  partial  deliverance, 
reached  him  from  a very  unexpected  quarter.  Schiller  had 
not  long  been  sick,  when  the  hereditary  Prince,  now  reigning 
Duke  of  Holstein-Augustenburg,  jointly  with  the  Count  Yon 
Schimmelmann,  conferred  on  him  a pension  of  a thousand 
crowns  for  three  years.1  No  stipulation  was  added,  but  merely 
that  he  should  be  careful  of  his  health,  and  use  every  atten- 
tion to  recover.  This  speedy  and  generous  aid,  moreover,  was 
presented  with  a delicate  politeness,  which,  as  Schiller  said, 
touched  him  more  than  even  the  gift  itself.  We  should  re- 
member this  Count  and  this  Duke  ; they  deserve  some  admira- 
tion and  some  envy. 

This  disorder  introduced  a melancholy  change  into  Schiller’s 
circumstances  : he  had  now  another  enemy  to  strive  with,  a 
secret  and  fearful  impediment  to  vanquish,  in  which  much 

1 It  was  to  Denmark  likewise  that  Klopstock  owed  the  means  of  com- 
pleting his  Messias. 


108 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


resolute  effort  must  be  sunk  without  producing  any  positive 
result.  Pain  is  not  entirely  synonymous  with  Evil  ; but 
bodily  pain  seems  less  redeemed  by  good  than  almost  any 
other  kind  of  it.  From  the  loss  of  fortune,  of  fame,  or  even 
of  friends,  Philosophy  pretends  to  draw  a certain  compensat- 
ing benefit  ; but  in  general  the  permanent  loss  of  health  will 
bid  defiance  to  her  alchymy.  It  is  a universal  diminution  ; 
the  diminution  equally  of  our  resources  and  of  our  capacity 
to  guide  them  ; a penalty  unmitigated,  save  by  love  of  Mends, 
which  then  first  becomes  truly  dear  and  precious  to  us  ; or 
by  comforts  brought  from  beyond  this  earthly  sphere,  from 
that  serene  Fountain  of  peace  and  hope,  to  which  our  weak 
Philosophy  cannot  raise  her  wing.  For  all  men,  in  itself, 
disease  is  misery  ; but  chiefly  for  men  of  finer  feelings  and 
endowments,  to  whom,  in  return  for  such  superiorities,  it 
seems  to  be  sent  most  frequently  and  in  its  most  distressing 
forms. 

It  is  a cruel  fate  for  the  poet  to  have  the  sunny  land  of 
his  imagination,  often  the  sole  territory  he  is  lord  of,  dis- 
figured and  darkened  by  the  shades  of  pain  ; for  one  whose 
highest  happiness  is  the  exertion  of  his  mental  faculties,  to 
have  them  chained  and  paralysed  in  the  imprisonment  of  a 
distempered  frame.  "With  external  activity,  with  palpable 
pursuits,  above  all,  with  a suitable  placidity  of  nature,  much 
even  in  certain  states  of  sickness  may  be  performed  and  en- 
joyed. But  for  him  whose  heart  is  already  over-keen,  whose 
world  is  of  the  mind,  ideal,  internal ; when  the  mildew  of 
lingering  disease  has  struck  that  world,  and  begun  to  blacken 
and  consume  its  beauty,  nothing  seems  to  remain  but  de- 
spondency and  bitterness  and  desolate  sorrow,  felt  and  antici- 
pated, to  the  end. 

Woe  to  him  if  his  Mil  likewise  falter,  if  his  resolution  fail, 
and  his  spirit  bend  its  neck  to  the  yoke  of  this  new  enemy  ! 
Idleness  and  a disturbed  imagination  will  gain  the  mastery  of 
him,  and  let  loose  then  thousand  fiends  to  harass  bim.  to  tor- 
ment him  into  madness.  Alas  ! the  bondage  of  Algiers  is 
freedom  compared  with  this  of  the  sick  man  of  genius,  whose 
heart  has  fainted  and  sunk  beneath  its  load.  His  clay  dwell- 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


109 


ing’  is  changed  into  a gloomy  prison  ; every  nerve  is  become 
an  avenue  of  disgust  or  anguish  ; and  the  soul  sits  within,  in 
her  melancholy  loneliness,  a prey  to  the  spectres  of  despair, 
or  stupefied  with  excess  of  suffering,  doomed  as  it  were  to  a 
‘ life  in  death/  to  a consciousness  of  agonised  existence, 
without  the  consciousness  of  power  which  should  accom- 
pany it.  Happily,  death,  or  entire  fatuity,  at  length  puts  an 
end  to  such  scenes  of  ignoble  misery  ; which,  however, 
ignoble  as  they  are,  we  ought  to  view  with  pity  rather  than 
contempt. 

Such  are  frequently  the  fruits  nf  protracted  sickness,  in  men 
otherwise  of  estimable  qualities. and  gifts,  but  whose  sensibil- 
ity exceeds  their  strength  of  mind.  In  Schiller,  its  worst 
effects  were  resisted  by  the  only  availing  antidote,  a strenuous 
determination  to  neglect  them.  His  spirit  was  too  'vigorous 
and  ardent  to  yield  even  in  this  emergency  : he  disdained  to 
dwindle  into  a pining  valetudinarian  ; in  the  midst  of  his  in- 
firmities, he  persevered  with  unabated  zeal  in  the  great  busi- 
ness of  his  life.  As  he  partially  recovered,  he  returned  as 
strenuously  as  ever  to  his  intellectual  occupations  ; and  often, 
in  the  glow  of  poetical  conception,  he  almost  forgot  his  mal- 
adies. By  such  resolute  and  manly  conduct,  he  disarmed 
sickness  of  its  crudest  power  to  wound  ; his  frame  might  be 
in  pain,  but  his  spirit  retained  its  force,  unextinguished, 
almost  unimpeded  ; he  did  not  lose  his  relish  for  the  beautiful, 
the  grand,  or  the  good,  in  any  of  them  shapes  ; he  loved  his 
friends  as  formerly,  and  wrote  his  finest  and  sublimest  works 
when  his  health  was  gone.  Perhaps  no  period  of  his  life  dis- 
played more  heroism  than  the  present  one. 

After  this  severe  attack,  and  the  kind  provision  which  he 
had  received  from  Denmark,  Schiller  seems  to  have  relaxed 
his  connexion  with  the  University  of  Jena  : the  weightiest 
duties  of  his  class  appear  to  have  been  discharged  by  proxy, 
and  his  historical  studies  to  have  been  forsaken.  Yet  this 
was  but  a change,  not  an  abatement,  in  the  activity  of  his 
mind.  Once  partially  free  from  pain,  all  his  former  diligence 
awoke  ; and  being  also  free  from  the  more  pressing  calls  of 
duty  and  economy,  he  was  now  allowed  to  turn  his  attention 


110 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


to  objects  which  attracted  it  more.  Among  these  one  of  the 
most  alluring  was  the  Philosophy  of  Kant. 

The  transcendental  system  of  the  Konigsberg  Professor  had, 
for  the  last  ten  years,  been  spreading  over  Germany,  which  it 
had  now  filled  with  the  most  violent  contentions.  The  powers 
and  accomplishments  of  Kant  were  universally  acknowledged  ; 
the  high  pretensions  of  his  system,  pretensions,  it  is  true, 
such  as  had  been  a thousand  times  put  forth,  a thousand  times 
found  wanting,  still  excited  notice,  when  so  backed  by  ability 
and  reputation.  The  air  of  mysticism  connected  with  these 
doctrines  was  attractive  to  th.e  German  mind,  with  which  the 
vague  and  the  vast  are  always  pleasing  qualities  ; the  dreadful 
array  of  first  principles,  the  forest  huge  of  terminology  and 
definitions,  where  the  panting  intellect  of  weaker  men  wanders 
as  in  pathless  thickets,  and  at  length  sinks  powerless  to  the 
earth,  oppressed  with  fatigue,  and  suffocated  with  scholastic 
miasma,  seemed  sublime  rather  than  appalling  to  the  Ger- 
mans ; men  who  shrink  not  at  toil,  and  to  whom  a certain  de- 
gree of  darkness  appears  a native  element,  essential  for  giving 
play  to  that  deep  meditative  enthusiasm  which  forms  so  im- 
portant a feature  in  their  character.  Kant’s  Philosophy,  ac- 
cordingly, found  numerous  disciples,  and  possessed  them  with 
zeal  unexampled  since  the  days  of  Pythagoras.  This,  in  fact,, 
resembled  spiritual  fanaticism  rather  than  a calm  ardour  in 
the  cause  of  science  ; Kant’s  warmest  admirers  seemed  to  re- 
gard him  more  in  the  light  of  a prophet  than  of  a mere  earthly 
sage.  Such  admiration  was  of  course  opposed  by  correspond- 
ing censure  ; the  transcendental  neophytes  had  to  encounter 
sceptical  gain  sayers  as  determined  as  themselves.  Of  this  lat- 
ter class  the  most  remarkable  were  Herder  and  Wieland. 
Herder,  then  a clergyman  of  Weimar,  seems  never  to  have 
comprehended  what  he  fought  against  so  keenly : he  de- 
nounced and  condemned  the  Kantean  metaphysics,  because 
he  found  them  heterodox.  The  young  divines  came  back 
from  the  University  of  Jena  with  their  minds  well  nigh  deliri- 
ous ; full  of  strange  doctrines,  which  they  explained  to  the 
examinators  of  the  Weimar  Consistorium  in  phrases  that  ex- 
cited no  idea  in  the  heads  of  these  reverend  persons,  but  much 


SCIIILLER  AT  JENA. 


Ill 


horror  in  their  hearts.1  Hence  reprimands,  and  objurgations, 
and  excessive  bitterness  between  the  applicants  for  ordination 
and  those  appointed  to  confer  it  : one  young  clergyman  at 
"Weimar  shot  himself  on  this  account ; heresy,  and  jarring, 
and  unprofitable  logic,  were  universal.  Hence  Herder’s 
vehement  attacks  on  this  ‘ pernicious  quackery  ; ’ this  delusive 
and  destructive  ‘ system  of  words.’ 2 Wieland  strove  against 
it  for  another  reason.  He  had,  all  his  life,  been  labouring  to 
give  currency  among  his  countrymen  to  a species  of  diluted 
epicurism  ; to  erect  a certain  smooth,  and  elegant,  and  very 
slender  scheme  of  taste  and  morals,  borrowed  from  our 
Shaftesbury  and  the  French.  All  this  feeble  edifice  the  new 
doctrine  was  sweeping  before  it  to  utter  ruin,  with  the  vio- 
lence of  a tornado.  It  grieved  Wieland  to  see  the  work  of 
half  a century  destroyed  : he  fondly  imagined  that  but  for 
Kant’s  philosophy  it  might  have  been  perennial.  With  scep- 
ticism quickened  into  action  by  such  motives,  Herder  and  he 
went  forth  as  brother  champions  against  the  transcendental 
metaphysics  ; they  were  not  long  without  a multitude  of  hot 
assailants.  The  uproar  produced  among  thinking  men  by  the 
conflict,  has  scarcely  been  equalled  in  Germany  since  the  days 
of  Luther.  Fields  were  fought,  and  victories  lost  and  won  ; 
%i early  all  the  minds  of  the  nation  were,  in  secret  or  openly, 
arrayed  on  this  side  or  on  that.  Goethe  alone  seemed  alto- 
gether to  retain  his  wonted  composure  ; he  was  clear  for  allow- 
ing the  Kantean  scheme  to  ‘ have  its  day,  as  all  things  have.’ 
Goethe  has  already  lived  to  see  the  wisdom  of  this  sentiment, 
so  characteristic  of  his  genius  and  turn  of  thought. 

In  these  controversies,  soon  pushed  beyond  the  bounds  of 

1 Schelling  has  a hook  on  the  ‘ Soul  of  the  World:  ’ Fichte’s  expres- 
sion to  his  students,  “Tomorrow,  gentlemen,  I shall  create  God,”  is 
known  to  most  readers. 

2 See  Herder's  Leben , by  his  Widow.  That  Herder  was  not  usually 
troubled  with  any  unphilosophical  scaptirism,  or  aversion  to  novelty, 
may  be  inferred  from  his  patronising  Dr.  Gall’s  system  of  Phrenology, 
or  ‘ Skull-doctrine  ’ as  they  call  it  in  Germany.  But  Gall  had  referred 
with  acknowledgment  and  admiration  to  the  Philosophic  dev  Uescliichte 
der  Men*chheit.  Here  lay  a difference. 


112 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


temperate  or  wholesome  discussion,  Schiller  took  no  part : 
but  the  noise  they  made  afforded  him  a fresh  inducement  to 
investigate  a set  of  doctrines,  so  important  in  the  general  esti- 
mation. A system  which  promised,  even  with  a very  little 
plausibility,  to  accomplish  all  that  Kant  asserted  his  complete 
performance  of  ; to  explain  the  difference  between  Matter  and 
Spirit,  to  unravel  the  perplexities  of  Necessity  and  Freewill ; 
to  show  us  the  true  grounds  of  our  belief  in  God,  and  what 
hope  nature  gives  us  of  the  soul’s  immortality  ; and  thus  at 
length,  after  a thousand  failures,  to  interpret  the  enigma  of 
our  being,- — -hardly  needed  that  additional  inducement  to  make 
such  a man  as  Schiller  grasp  at  it  with  eager  curiosity.  His 
progress  also  was  facilitated  by  his  present  circumstances  ; 
Jena  had  now  become  the  chief  well-spring  of  Kantean  doc- 
trine, a distinction  or  disgrace  it  has  ever  since  continued  to 
deserve.  Reinhold,  one  of  Kant’s  ablest  followers,  was  at  this 
time  Schiller’s  fellow-teacher  and  daily  companion  : he  did  not 
fail  to  encourage  and  assist  his  friend  in  a path  of  study,  which, 
as  he  believed,  conducted  to  such  glorious  results.  Under 
this  tuition,  Schiller  was  not  long  in  discovering,  that  at  least 
the  ‘ new  philosophy  was  more  poetical  than  that  of  Leibnitz, 
and  had  a grander  character  ; ’ persuasions  which  of  course 
confirmed  him  in  his  resolution  to  examine  it.  * 

How  far  Schiller  penetrated  into  the  arcana  of  transcenden- 
talism it  is  impossible  for  us  to  say.  The  metaphysical  and 
logical  branches  of  it  seem  to  have  afforded  him  no  solid  satis- 
faction, or  taken  no  firm  hold  of  his  thoughts  ; their  influence 
is  scarcely  to  be  traced  in  any  of  his  subsequent  writings. 
The  only  department  to  which  he  attached  himself  with  his 
ordinary  zeal  was  that  which  relates  to  the  principles  of  the 
imitative  arts,  with  their  moral  influences,  and  which  in  the 
Kantean  nomenclature  has  been  designated  by  the  term 
L Esthetics or  the  doctrine  of  sentiments  and  emotions.  On 
these  subjects  he  had  already  amassed  a multitude  of  thoughts  ; 
to  see  which  expressed  bf  new  symbols,  and  arranged  in 
systematic  form,  and  held  together  by  some  common  theory, 

1 From  the  verb  aia-davo^at,  to  fed. — The  term  is  Baumgarten's  ; prior 
to  Kant  (1845). 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


113 


would  necessarily  yield  enjoyment  to  liis  intellect,  and  inspire 
In' in  with  fresh  alacrity  in  prosecuting  such  researches.  The 
new  light  which  dawned,  or  seemed  to  dawn,  upon  him,  in  the 
course  of  these  investigations,  is  reflected,  in  various  treatises, 
evincing,  at  least,  the  honest  diligence  with  which  he  studied, 
and  the  fertility  with  which  he  could  produce.  Of  these  the 
largest  and  most  elaborate  are  the  essays  on  Grace  and  Dig- 
nity ; on  Naive  and  Sentimental  Poetry  ; and  the  Letters  on  the 
AEsthetic  Culture  of  Man  : the  other  pieces  are  on  Tragic  Art  / 
on  the  Pathetic ; on  the  Cause  of  our  Delight  in  Tragic  Ob- 
jects ; on  Employing  the  Low  and  Common  in  Art. 

Being  cast  in  the  mould  of  Kantism,  or  at  least  clothed  in 
its  garments,  these  productions,  to  readers  unacquainted  with 
that  system,  are  encumbered  here  and  there  with  difficulties 
greater  than  belong  intrinsically  to  the  subject.  In  perusing 
them,  the  uninitiated  student  is  mortified  at  seeing  so  much 
powerful  thought  distorted,  as  he  thinks,  into  such  fantastic 
forms  : the  principles  of  reasoning,  on  which  they  rest,  are 
apparently  not  those  of  common  logic  ; a dimness  and  doubt 
overhangs  their  conclusions  ; scarcely  anything  is  proved  in  a 
convincing  manner.  But  this  is  no  strange  quality  in  such 
writings.  To  an  esoteric  reader  the  philosophy  of  Kant  al- 
most always  appears  to  invert  the  common  maxim  ; its  end 
and  aim  seem  not  to  be  ‘ to  make  abstruse  things  simple,  but 
to  make  simple  things  abstruse.’  Often  a proposition  of  in- 
scrutable and  dread  aspect,  when  resolutely  grappled  with, 
and  tom  from  its  shady  den,  and  its  bristling  entrenchments 
of  uncouth  terminology,  and  dragged  forth  into  the  open 
light  of  day,  to  be  seen  by  the  natural  eye,  and  tried  by 
merely  human  understanding,  proves  to  be  a very  harmless 
truth,  familiar  to  us  from  of  old,  sometimes  so  familiar  as  to 
be  a truism.  Too  frequently,  the  anxious  novice  is  reminded 
of  Dryden  in  the  Battle  of  the  Books : there  is  a helmet  of 
rusty  iron,  dark,  grkn,  gigantic  ; and  within  it,  at  the  farthest 
comer,  is  a head  no  bigger  than  a walnut.  These  are  the 
general  errors  of  Ivantean  criticism  ; in  the  present  works, 
they  are  by  no  means  of  the  worst  or  most  pervading  kind  ; 
and  there  is  a fundamental  merit  which  does  more  than 
8 


1U 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


counterbalance  them.  By  the  aid  of  study,  the  doctrine  set 
before  us  can,  in  general,  at  length  be  comprehended  ; and 
Schiller’s  fine  intellect,  recognisable  even  in  its  masquerade, 
is  ever  and  anon  peering  forth  in  its  native  form,  which  all 
may  understand,  which  all  must  relish,  and  presenting  us  with 
passages  that  show  like  bright  verdant  islands  in  the  misty  sea 
of  metaphysics. 

We  have  been  compelled  to  offer  these  remarks  on  Kant’s 
Philosophy  ; but  it  is  right  to  add  that  they  are  the  result  of 
only  very  limited  acquaintance  with  the  subject.  We  cannot 
wish  that  any  influence  of  ours  should  add  a note,  however 
feeble,  to  the  loud  and  not  at  all  melodious  cry  which  has  been 
raised  against  it  in  this  country.  When  a class  of  doctrines 
so  involved  in  difficulties,  yet  so  sanctioned  by  illustrious 
names,  is  set  before  us,  curiosity  must  have  a theory  respect- 
ing them,  and  indolence  and  other  humbler  feelings  are  too 
ready  to  afford  her  one.  To  call  Kant’s  system  a laborious 
dream,  and  its  adherents  crazy  mystics,  is  a brief  method, 
brief  but  false.  The  critic,  whose  philosophy  includes  the 
craziness  of  men  like  these,  so  easily  and  smoothly  in  its 
formulas,  should  render  thanks  to  Heaven  for  having  gifted 
him  with  science  and  acumen,  as  few  in  any  age  or  country 
have  been  gifted.  Meaner  men,  however,  ought  to  recollect 
that  where  we  do  not  understand,  we  should  postpone  decid- 
ing, or,  at  least,  keep  our  decision  for  our  own  exclusive 
benefit  We  of  England  may  reject  this  Kantean  system, 
perhaps  with  reason ; but  it  ought  to  be  on  other  grounds 
than  are  yet  before  us.  Philosophy  is  science,  and  science,  as 
Schiller  has  observed,  cannot  always  be  explained  in  1 conver- 
sations by  the  parlour  fire,’  or  in  written  treatises  that  re- 
semble such.  The  cui  bono  of  these  doctrines  may  not,  it  is 
true,  be  expressible  by  arithmetical  computations : the  subject 
also  is  perplexed  with  obscurities,  and  probably  with  manifold 
delusions  ; and  too  often  its  interpreters  with  us  have  been 
like  ‘ tenebrific  stars,’  that  ‘ did  ray  out  darkness  ’ on  a matter 
itself  sufficiently  dark.  But  what  then  ? Is  the  jewel  always 
to  be  found  among  the  common  dust  of  the  highway,  and  al- 
ways to  be  estimated  by  its  value  in  the  common  judgment  ? 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


115 


It  lies  embosomed  in  the  depths  of  the  mine  ; rocks  must  be 
vent  before  it  can  be  reached  ; skilful  eyes  and  hands  must 
separate  it  fi’om  the  rubbish  where  it  lies  concealed,  and 
kingly  purchasers  alone  can  prize  it  and  buy  it.  This  law  of 
ostracism  is  as  dangerous  in  science  as  it  was  of  old  in  poli- 
tics. Let  us  not  forget  that  many  things  are  true  which  can- 
not be  demonstrated  by  the  rules  of  Watts’s  Logic ; that  many 
truths  are  valuable,  for  which  no  price  is  given  in  Paternoster 
Row,  and  no  preferment  offered  at  St.  Stephen’s  ! Whoever 
reads  these  treatises  of  Schiller  with  attention,  will  perceive 
that  they  depend  on  principles  of  an  immensely  higher  and 
more  complex  character  than  our  ‘ Essays  on  Taste,’  and  our 
‘Inquiries  concerning  the  Freedom  of  the  Will.’  The  laws  of 
criticism,  which  it  is  their  purpose  to  establish,  are  derived 
from  the  inmost  nature  of  man  ; the  scheme  of  morality,  which 
they  inculcate,  soars  into  a brighter  region,  very  far  beyond 
the  ken  of  our  ‘Utilities’  and  ‘Reflex-senses.’  They  do  not 
teach  us  ‘to  judge  of  poetry  and  art  as  we  judge  of  dinner,’ 
merely  by  observing  the  impressions  it  produced  in  us  ; and 
they  do  derive  the  duties  and  chief  end  of  man  from  other 
grounds  than  the  philosophy  of  Profit  and  Loss.  These 
Letters  on  JEsthetic  Culture,  without  the  aid  of  anything  which 
the  most  sceptical  could  designate  as  superstition,  trace  out 
and  attempt  to  sanction  for  us  a system  of  morality,  in  which 
the  sublimest  feelings  of  the  Stoic  and  the  Christian  are  repre- 
sented but  as  stages  in  our  progress  to  the  pinnacle  of  true 
human  grandeur  ; and  man,  isolated  on  this  fragment  of  the 
universe,  encompassed  with  the  boundless  desolate  Unknown, 
at  war  with  Fate,  without  help  or  the  hope  of  help,  is  confi- 
dently called  upon  to  rise  into  a calm  cloudless  height  of  in- 
ternal activity  and  peace,  and  be,  what  he  has  fondly  named 
himself,  the  god  of  this  lower  world.  When  such  are  the 
results,  who  would  not  make  an  effort  for  the  steps  by  which 
they  are  attained?  In  Schiller’s  treatises,  it  must  be  owned, 
the  reader,  after  all  exertions,  will  be  fortunate  if  he  can  find 
them.  Yet  a second  perusal  will  satisfy  him  better  than  the 
first  ; and  among  the  shapeless  immensities  which  fill  the 
Night  of  Kantism,  and  the  meteoric  coruscations,  which  per- 


116  • THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


plex  him  rather  than  enlighten,  he  will  fancy  he  descries  some 
streaks  of  a serener  radiance,  which  he  wrill  pray  devoutly 
that  time  may  purify  and  ripen  into  perfect  day.  The  Philos- 
ophy of  Kant  is  probably  combined  with  errors  to  its  very 
core  ; but  perhaps  also,  this  ponderous  unmanageable  dross 
may  bear  in  it  the  everlasting  gold  of  truth  ! Mighty  spirits 
have  already  laboured  in  refining  it : is  it  wise  in  us  to  take 
up  with  the  base  pewter  of  Utility7,  and  renounce  such  projects 
altogether?  We  trust,  not.1 

That  Schiller’s  genius  profited  by  this  laborious  and  ar- 
dent study  of  ^Esthetic  Metaphysics,  has  frequently  been 
doubted,  and  sometimes  denied.  That,  after  such  investiga- 
tions, the  process  of  composition  would  become  more  difficult, 
might  be  inferred  from  the  nature  of  the  case.  That  also  the 
principles  of  this  critical  theory  were  in  part  erroneous,  in 
still  greater  part  too  far-fetched  and  fine-spun  for  application 
to  the  business  of  writing,  we  may7  farther  venture  to  assert. 
But  excellence,  not  ease  of  composition,  is  the  thing  to  be  de- 
sired ; and  in  a mind  like  Schiller’s,  so  full  of  energy,  of  im- 
ages and  thoughts  and  creative  power,  the  more  sedulous 
practice  of  selection  was  little  likely  to  be  detrimental.  And 
though  considerable  errors  might  mingle  with  the  rules  by 
which  he  judged  himself,  the  habit  of  judging  carelessly,  or 
not  at  all,  is  far  worse  than  that  of  sometimes  judging  wrong. 
Besides,  once  accustomed  to  attend  strictly  to  the  operations 
of  his  genius,  and  rigorously  to  try7' its  products,  such  a man 
as  Schiller  could  not  fail  in  time  to  discover  what  was  false  in 
the  principles  by7  which  he  tried  them,  and  consequently,  in 
the  end,  to  retain  the  benefits  of  this  procedure  without  its 
evils.  There  is  doubtless  a purism  in  taste,  a rigid  fantastical 
demand  of  perfection,  a horror  at  approaching  the  limits  of 
impropriety,  which  obstructs  the  free  impulse  of  the  faculties, 
and  if  excessive,  would  altogether  deaden  them.  But  the  ex- 
cess on  the  other  side  is  much  more  frequent,  and,  for  high 

1 Are  our  hopes  from  Mr.  Coleridge  always  to  be  fruitless  ? Sneers  at 
the  common-sense  philosophy  of  the  Scotch  are  of  little  use  : it  is  a poor 
philosophy,  perhaps ; but  not  so  poor  as  none  at  all,  which  seems  to  be 
the  state  of  matters  here  at  present. 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


117 


endowments,  infinitely  more  pernicious.  After  the  strongest 
efforts,  there  may  be  little  realised  ; without  strong  efforts, 
there  must  be  little.  That  too  much  care  does  hurt  in  any  of 
our  tasks  is  a doctrine  so  flattering  to  indolence,  that  we  ought 
to  receive  it  with  extreme  caution.  In  works  impressed  with 
the  stamp  of  true  genius,  their  quality,  not  their  extent,  is 
what  we  value  : a dull  man  may  spend  his  lifetime  writing  lit- 
tle ; better  so  than  writing  much  ; but  a man  of  powerful 
mind  is  liable  to  no  such  danger.  Of  all  our  authors,  Gray 
is  perhaps  the  only  one  that  from  fastidiousness  of  taste  has 
written  less  than  he  should  have  done  : there  are  thousands 
that  have  erred  the  other  way.  What  would  a Spanish  reader 
give,  had  Lope  de  Vega  composed  a hundred  times  as  little, 
and  that  little  a hundred  times  as  well  ! 

Schiller’s  own  ideas  on  these  points  appear  to  be  sufficiently 
sound  : they  are  sketched  in  the  following  extract  of  a letter, 
interesting  also  as  a record  of  his  purposes  and  intellectual 
condition  at  this  period  : 

‘ Criticism  must  now  make  good  to  me  the  damage  she 
herself  has  done.  And  damaged  me  she  most  certainly  has  ; 
for  the  boldness,  the  living  glow  which  I felt  before  a rule 
was  known  to  me,  have  for  several  years  been  wanting.  I 
now  see  myself  create  and  form : I watch  the  play  of  inspira- 
tion ; and  my  fancy,  knowing  she  is  not  without  witnesses  of 
her  movements,  no  longer  moves  with  equal  freedom.  I hope, 
however,  ultimately  to  advance  so  far  that  art  shall  become  a 
second  nature,  as  polished  manners  are  to  well-bred  men  ; 
then  Imagination  wTill  regain  her  former  freedom,  and  submit 
to  none  but  voluntary  limitations.’ 

Schiller’s  subsequent  writings  are  the  best  proof  that  in 
these  expectations  he  had  not  miscalculated. 

The  historical  and  critical  studies,  in  which  he  had  been  so 
extensively  and  seriously  engaged,  could  not  remain  without 
effect  on  Schiller’s  general  intellectual  character.  He  had 
spent  five- active  years  in  studies  directed  almost  solely  to  the 
understanding,  or  the  faculties  connected  with  it  ; and  such 


118 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


industry  united  to  such  ardour  had  produced  an  immense  ac- 
cession of  ideas.  History  had  furnished  him  with  pictures  of 
manners  and  events,  of  strange  conjunctures  and  conditions 
of  existence  ; it  had  given  him  more  minute  and  truer  con- 
ceptions of  human  nature  in  its  many  forms,  new  and  more 
accurate  opinions  on  the  character  and  end  of  man.  The  do- 
main of  his  mind  was  both  enlarged  and  enlightened  ; a mul- 
titude of  images  and  detached  facts  and  perceptions  had  been 
laid  up  in  his  memory ; and  his  intellect  was  at  once  enriched 
by  acquired  thoughts,  and  strengthened  by  increased  exercise 
on  a wider  circle  of  knowledge. 

But  to  understand  was  not  enough  for  Schiller  ; there  were 
in  him  facilities  which  this  could  not  employ,  and  therefore 
could  not  satisfy.  The  primary  vocation  of  his  nature  was 
poetry  : the  acquisitions  of  his  other  faculties  served  but  as 
the  materials  for  his  poetic  faculty  to  act  upon,  and  seemed 
imperfect  till  they  had  been  sublimated  into  the  pure  and 
perfect  forms  of  beauty,  which  it  is  the  business  of  this  to 
elicit  from  them.  New  thoughts  gave  birth  to  new  feelings  : 
and  both  of  these  he  was  now  called  upon  to  body  forth,  to 
represent  by  visible  types,  to  animate  and  adorn  with  the 
magic  of  creative  genius.  The  first  youthful  blaze  of  poetic 
ardour  had  long  since  passed  away  ; but  this  large  increase 
of  knowledge  awakened  it  anew,  refined  by  years  and  ex- 
perience into  a steadier  and  clearer  flame.  Yague  shadows 
of  unaccomplished  excellence,  gleams  of  ideal  beauty,  were 
now  hovering  fitfully  across  his  mind  : he  longed  to  turn  them 
into  shape,  and  give  them  a local  habitation  and  a name. 
Criticism,  likewise,  had  exalted  his  notions  of  art : the  mod- 
ern writers  on  subjects  of  taste,  Aristotle,  the  ancient  poets, 
he  had  lately  studied  ; he  had  carefully  endeavoured  to  ex- 
tract the  truth  from  each,  and  to  amalgamate  their  principles 
with  his  own  ; in  choosing,  he  was  now  more  difficult  to 
satisfy.  Minor  poems  had  all  along  been  partly  occupying 
his  attention  ; but  they  yielded  no  space  for  the  intensity  of 
his  impulses,  and  the  magnificent  ideas  that  were  rising  in  his 
fancy.  Conscious  of  his  strength,  he  dreaded  not  engaging 
with  the  highest  species  of  his  art : the  perusal  of  the  Greek 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


119 


tragedians  had  given  rise  to  some  late  translations  ; 1 the 
perusal  of  Homer  seems  now  to  have  suggested  the  idea  of 
an  epic  poem.  The  hero  whom  he  first  contemplated  was 
Gustavus  Adolphus  ; he  afterwards  changed  to  Frederick  the 
Great  of  Prussia. 

Epic  poems,  since  the  time  of  the  Epigoniad,  and  Leonidas, 
and  especially  since  that  of  some  more  recent  attempts,  have 
with  us  become  a mighty  dull  affair.  That  Schiller  aimed  at 
something  infinitely  higher  than  these  faint  and  superannuated 
imitations,  far  higher  than  even  Klopstock  has  attained,  will 
appear  by  the  following  extract  from  one  of  his  letters  : 

‘ An  epic  poem  in  the  eighteenth  century  should  be  quite 
a different  thing  from  such  a poem  in  the  childhood  of  the 
world.  And  it  is  that  very  circumstance  which  attracts  me  so 
much  towards  this  project.  Our  manners,  the  finest  essence 
of  our  philosophies,  our  politics,  economy,  arts,  in  short,  of  all 
we  know  and  do,  would  require  to  be  introduced  without  con- 
straint, and  interwoven  in  such  a composition,  to  live  there  in 
beautiful  harmonious  freedom,  as  all  the  branches  of  Greek 
culture  live  and  are  made  visible  in  Homer’s  Iliad.  Nor  am  I 
disinclined  to  invent  a species  of  machinery  for  this  purpose  ; 
being  anxious  to  fulfil,  with  hairsbreadth  accuracy,  all  the 
requisitions  that  are  made  of  epic  poets,  even  on  the  side  of 
form.  Besides,  this  machinery,  which,  in  a subject  so  mod- 
ern, in  an  age  so  prosaic,  appears  to  present  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty, might  exalt  the  interest  in  a high  degree,  were  it  suit- 
ably adapted  to  this  same  modern  spirit.  Crowds  of  confused 
ideas  on  this  matter  are  rolling  to  and  fro  within  my  head ; 
something  distinct  will  come  out  of  them  at  last. 

‘ As  for  the  sort  of  metre  I would  choose,  this  I think  you 
will  hardly  guess  : no  other  than  ottave  rime.  All  the  rest, 
except  iambic,  are  become  insufferable  to  me.  And  how  beau- 
tifully might  the  earnest  and  the  lofty  be  made  to  play  in 
these  light  fetters  ! What  attractions  might  the  epic  substance 
gain  by  the  soft  yielding  form  of  this  fine  rhyme  ! For,  the 

1 These  were  a fine  version  of  Euripides’  Iphigenia  in  Aulide,  and  a 
few  scenes  of  his  Phcenissce. 


120 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


. poem  must,  not  in  name  only,-  but  in  very  deed,  be  capable  of 
being  sung  ; as  the  Iliad  was  sung  by  tbe  peasants  of  Greece, 
as  tbe  stanzas  of  Jerusalem  Delivered  are  still  sung  by  tbe 
Venetian  gondoliers. 

‘The  epoch  of  Frederick’s  life  that  would  fit  me  best,  I 
have  considered  also.  I should  wish  to  select  some  unhappy 
situation ; it  would  allow  me  to  unfold  his  mind  far  more 
poetically.  The  chief  action  should,  if  possible,  be  very  sim- 
ple, perplexed  with  no  complicated  circumstances,  that  the 
whole  might  easily  be  comprehended  at  a glance,  though  the 
episodes  were  never  so  numerous.  In  this  respect  there  is  no 
better  model  than  the  Iliad.’ 

Schiller  did  not  execute,  or  even  commence,  the  project  he 
has  here  so  philosophically  sketched : the  constraints  of  his 
present  situation,  the  greatness  of  the  enterprise  compared 
with  the  uncertainty  of  its  success,  were  sufficient  to  deter 
him.  Besides,  he  felt  that  after  all  his  wide  excursions,  the. 
true  home  of  his  genius  was  the  Drama,  the  department 
where  its  powers  had  first  been  tried,  and  were  now  by  habit 
or  nature  best  qualified  to  act.  To  the  Drama  he  accordingly 
returned.  The  History  of  the  Thirty-Years  li  ar  had  once  sug- 
gested the  idea  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  as  the  hero  of  an  epic 
poem  ; the  same  work  afforded  him  a subject  for  a tragedy  : 
he  now  decided  on  beginning  Wallenstein.  In  this  undertak- 
ing it  was  no  easy  task  that  he  contemplated  ; a common  play 
did  not  now  comprise  his  aim  ; he  required  some  magnificent 
and  comprehensive  object,  in  which  he  could  expend  to  ad- 
vantage the  new  poetical  and  intellectual  treasures  which  he 
had  for  years  been  amassing  ; something  that  should  at  once 
exemplify  his  enlarged  ideas  of  art,  and  give  room  and  shape 
to  his  fresh  stores  of  knowledge  and  sentiment.  As  he  studied 
the  history  of  Wallenstein,  and  viewed  its  capabilities  on  every 
side,  new  ideas  gathered  round  it : the  subject  grew  in  mag- 
nitude, and  often  changed  in  form.  His  progress  in  actual 
composition,  was,  of  course,  irregular  and  smalL  Vet  the 
difficulties  of  the  subject,  increasing  with  his  own  wider, 
more  ambitious  conceptions,  did  not  abate  his  diligence  : JlaZ- 
lenstem,  with  many  interruptions  and  many  alterations,  some- 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


121 


times  stationary,  sometimes  retrograde,  continued  on  the 
whole,  though  slowly,  to  advance. 

This  was  for  several  years  his  chosen  occupation,  the  task 
to  which  he  consecrated  his  brightest  hours,  and  the  finest 
part  of  his  faculties.  For  humbler  employments,  demanding 
rather  industry  than  inspiration,  there  still  remained  abun- 
dant leisure,  of  which  it  was  inconsistent  with  his  habits  to 
waste  a single  hour.  His  occasional  labours,  accordingly, 
were  numerous,  varied,  and  sometimes  of  considerable  ex- 
tent. In  the  end  of  1792,  a new  object  seemed  to  call  for  his 
attention  ; he  once  about  this  time  seriously  meditated  min- 
gling in  politics.  The  French  Revolution  had  from  the  first 
affected  him  with  no  ordinary  hopes  ; which,  however,  the 
course  of  events,  particularly  the  imprisonment  of  Louis,  were 
now  fast  converting  into  fears.  For  the  ill-fated  monarch, 
and  the  cause  of  freedom,  which  seemed  threatened  with  dis- 
grace in  the  treatment  he  was  likely  to  receive,  Schiller  felt 
so  deeply  interested,  that  he  had  determined,  in  his  case  a de- 
termination not  without  its  risks,  to  address  an  appeal  on 
these  subjects  to  the  French  people  and  the  world  at  large. 
The  voice  of  reason  advocating  liberty  as  well  as  order  might 
still,  he  conceived,  make  a salutary  impression  in  this  period 
of  terror  and  delusion  ; the  voice  of  a distinguished  man 
would  at  first  sound  like  the  voice  of  the  nation,  which  he 
seemed  to  represent.  Schiller  was  inquiring  for  a proper 
French  translator,  and  revolving  in  his  mind  the  various  argu- 
ments that  might  be  used,  and  the  comparative  propriety  of 
using  or  forbearing  to  use  them  ; but  the  progress  of  things 
superseded  the  necessity  of  such  deliberation.  In  a few 
months,  Louis  perished  on  the  scaffold ; the  Bourbon  family 
were  murdered,  or  scattered  over  Europe  ; and  the  French 
government  was  changed  into  a frightful  chaos,  amid  the 
tumultuous  and  bloody  horrors  of  which,  calm  truth  had  no 
longer  a chance  to  be  heard.  Schiller  turned  away  from  these 
repulsive  and  appalling  scenes,  into  other  regions  where  his 
heart  was  more  familiar,  and  his  powers  more  likely  to  pro- 
duce effect.  The  French  Revolution  had  distressed  and 
shocked  him  ; but  it  did  not  lessen  his  attachment  to  liberty, 


122 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


tlie  name  of  which  had  been  so  desecrated  in  its  wild  con- 
vulsions. Perhaps  in  his  subsequent  writings  we  can  trace  a 
more  respectful  feeling  towards  old  establishments ; more 
reverence  for  the  majesty  of  Custom  ; and  with  an  equal  zeal, 
a weaker  faith  in  human  perfectibility  : changes  indeed  which 
are  the  common  fruit  of  years  themselves,  in  whatever  age  or 
climate  of  the  world  our  experience  may  be  gathered. 

Among  the  number  of  fluctuating  engagements,  one,  which 
for  ten  years  had  been  constant  with  him,  was  the  editing  of 
the  Thalia.  The  principles  and  performances  of  that  work 
he  had  long  looked  upon  as  insufficient : in  particular,  ever 
since  his  settlement  at  Jena,  it  had  been  among  his  favourite 
projects  to  exchange  it  for  some  other,  conducted  on  a more 
liberal  scheme,  uniting  more  ability  in  its  support,  and  em- 
bracing a much  wider  compass  of  literary  interests.  Many  of 
the  most  distinguished  persons  in  Germany  had  agreed  to 
assist  him  in  executing  such  a plan  ; Goethe,  himself  a host, 
undertook  to  go  hand  in  hand  with  him.  The  Thalia  was  in 
consequence  relinquished  at  the  end  of  1793  : and  the  fust 
number  of  the  Horen  came  out  early  in  the  following  year. 
This  publication  was  enriched  with  many  valuable  pieces  on 
points  of  philosophy  and  criticism  ; some  of  Schiller’s  finest 
essays  first  appeared  here : even  without  the  foreign  aids 
which  had  been  promised  him,  it  already  bade  fair  to  outdo, 
as  he  had  meant  it  should,  every  previous  work  of  that  descrip- 
tion. 

The  Musen-Almanach,  of  which  he  likewise  undertook  the 
superintendence,  did  not  aim  so  high : like  other  works  of 
the  same  title,  which  are  numerous  in  Germany,  it  was  in- 
tended for  preserving  and  annually  delivering  to  the  world,  a 
series  of  short  poetical  effusions,  or  other  fugitive  composi- 
tions, collected  from  various  quarters,  and  often  having  no 
connexion  but  their  juxtaposition.  In  this  work,  as  well  as 
in  the  Horen , some  of  Schiller’s  finest  smaller  poems  made 
their  first  appearance  ; many  of  these  pieces  being  written 
about  this  period,  especially  the  greater  part  of  his  ballads, 
the  idea  of  attempting  which  took  its  rise  in  a friendly  rivalry 
with  Goethe.  But  the  most  noted  composition  sent  foi'th  iu 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


123 


the  pages  of  the  Musen- Almanack,  was  the  Xenien  • 1 a col- 
lection of  epigrams  which  originated  partly,  as  it  seems,  in 
the  mean  or  irritating  conduct  of  various  contemporary 
authors.  In  spite  of  the  most  flattering  promises,  and  of  its 
own  intrinsic  character,  the  Horen,  at  its  first  appearance,  in- 
stead of  being  hailed  with  welcome  by  the  leading  minds  of 
the  country,  for  whom  it  was  intended  as  a rallying  point, 
met  in  many  quarters  with  no  sentiment  but  coldness  or  hos- 
tility. The  controversies  of  the  day  had  sown  discord  among 
literary  men  ; Schiller  and  Goethe,  associating  together,  had 
provoked  ill-will  from  a host  of  persons,  who  felt  the  justice 
of  such  mutual  preference,  but  liked  not  the  inferences  to  be 
drawn  from  it ; and  eyed  this  intellectual  duumvirate,  how- 
ever meek  in  the  discharge  of  its  functions  and  the  wearing 
of  its  honours,  with  jealousy  and  discontent. 

The  cavilling  of  these  people,  awkwardly  contrasted  with 
their  personal  absurdity  and  insipidity,  at  length  provoked  the 
serious  notice  of  the  two  illustrious  associates  : the  result  was 
this  German  Dunciad  ; a production  of  which  the  plan  was,  that 
it  should  comprise  an  immense  multitude  of  detached  couplets, 
each  conveying  a complete  thought  within  itself,  and  furnished 
by  one  of  the  joint  operators.  The  subjects  were  of  unlimited 
variety  ; £ the  most,’  as  Schiller  says,  ‘were  wild  satire,  glan- 
cing at  writers  and  writings,  intermixed  with  here  and  there  a 
flash  of  poetical  or  philosophic  thought.’  It  was  at  first  intended 
to  provide  about  a thousand  of  these  pointed  monodistichs  ; 
unity  in  such  a work  appearing  to  consist  in  a certain  bound- 
lessness of  size,  which  should  hide  the  heterogeneous  nature 
of  the  individual  parts  : the  whole  were  then  to  be  arranged 
and  elaborated,  till  they  had  acquired  the  proper  degree  of 
consistency  and  symmetry  ; each  sacrificing  something  of  its 
own  peculiar  spiiit  to  preserve  the  spirit  of  the  rest.  This 
number  never  was  completed  : and,  Goethe  being  now  busy 
with  his  Wilhelm  Meisler,  the  project  of  completing  it  was  at 
length  renounced  ; and  the  Xenien  were  published  as  uncon- 

' So  called  from  £<=vcov,  miinus  hospitale ; a title  borrowed  from  Mar- 
tial, who  lias  thus  designated  a series  of  personal  epigrams  in  his  Thir- 
teenth Book. 


124 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  RICE  SCHILLER. 


nected  particles,  not  pretending  to  constitute  a whole. 
Enough  appeared  to  create  unbounded  commotion  among  the 
parties  implicated : the  Xenien  were  exclaimed  against, 
abused,  and  replied  to,  on  all  hands ; but  as  they  declared 
war  not  on  persons  but  on  actions  ; not  against  Gleim,  Nicolai, 
Manso,  but  against  bad  taste,  duhiess,  and  affectation,  nothing 
criminal  could  be  sufficiently  made  out  against  them. 1 The 
Musen- Almanack,  where  they  appeared  in  1797,  continued  to 
be  published  till  the  time  of  Schiller’s  leaving  Jena  : the  Horen 
ceased  some  months  before. 

The  cooperation  of  Goethe,  which  Schiller  had  obtained  so 
readily  in  these  pursuits,  was  of  singular  use  to  him  in  many 
others.  Both  possessing  minds  of  the  first  order,  yet  con- 
structed and  trained  in  the  most  opposite  modes,  each  had 
much  that  was  valuable  to  learn  of  the  other,  and  suggest  to 
him.  Cultivating  different  kinds  of  excellence,  they  could 
joyfully  admit  each  other's  merit  ; connected  by  mutual  ser- 
vices, and  now  by  community  of  literary  interests,  few  un- 
kindly feelings  could  have  place  between  them.  For  a man 
of  high  qualities,  it  is  rare  to  find  a meet  companion  ; painful 
and  injurious  to  want  one.  Solitude  exasperates  or  deadens 
the  heart,  perverts  or  enervates  the  faculties  ; association  with 
inferiors  leads  to  dogmatism  in  thought,  and  self-will  even  in 
affections.  Kousseau  never  should  have  lived  in  the  Val  de 
Montmorenci  ; it  had  been  good  for  Warburton  that  Hurd 
had  not  existed  ; for  Johnson  never  to  have  known  Boswell  or 
Davies.  From  such  evils  Schiller  and  Goethe  were  delivered  ; 
their  intimacy  seems  to  have  been  equal,  frank  and  cordial  ; 
from  the  contrasts  and  the  endowments  of  their  minds,  it 
must  have  had  peculiar  charms.  In  his  critical  theories, 
Schiller  had  derived  much  profit  from  communicating  with  an 
intellect  as  excursive  as  his  own,  but  far  cooler  and  more 
sceptical : as  he  lopped  off  from  his  creed  the  excrescences  of 
Kantism,  Goethe  and  he,  on  comparing  their  ideas,  often 
found  in  them  a striking  similarity  ; more  striking  and  more 

1 Tliis  is  hut  a lame  account  of  the  far-famed  Xenien  and  their  results. 
See  more  of  the  matter  in  Franz  Horn’s  Poesie  und  Beredtsamkeit ; in 
Carlyle  s Miscellanies  (i.  46) ; &c.  ( Note  of  1845.) 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


125 


gratifying,  when  it  was  considered  from  what  diverse  premises 
these  harmonious  conclusions  had  been  drawn.  On  such  sub- 
jects they  often  corresponded  when  absent,  and  conversed  when 
together.  They  were  in  the  habit  of  paying  long  visits  to 
each  other’s  houses  ; frequently  they  used  to  travel  in  com- 
pany between  Jena  and  Weimar.  ‘ At  Triesnitz,  a couple  of 
English  miles  from  Jena,  Goethe  and  he,’  we  are  told,  ‘ might 
sometimes  be  observed  sitting  at  table,  beneath  the  shade  of 
a spreading  tree  ; talking,  and  looking  at  the  current  of  pas- 
sengers.’— There  are  some  who  would  have  ‘ travelled  fifty 
miles  on  foot’  to  join  the  party  ! 

Besides  this  intercourse  with  Goethe,  he  was  happy  in  a 
kindly  connexion  with  many  other  estimable  men,  both  in 
literary  and  in  active  life.  Dalberg,  at  a distance,  was  to  the 
last  his  friend  and  warmest  admirer.  At  Jena,  he  had  Schiitz, 
Paul,  Hufland/  Beinhold.  Wilhelm  von  Humboldt,  also, 
brother  of  the  celebrated  traveller,  had  come  thither  about 
this  time,  and  was  now  among  his  closest  associates.  At 
Weimar,  excluding  less  important  persons,  there  were  still 
Herder  and  Wieland,  to  divide  his  attention  with  Goethe. 
And  what  to  his  affectionate  heart  must  have  been  the  most 
grateful  circumstance  of  all,  his  aged  parents  were  yet  living 
to  participate  in  the  splendid  fortune  of  the  son  whom  they 
had  once  lamented  and  despaired  of,  but  never  ceased  to  love. 
In  1793  he  paid  them  a visit  in  Swabia,  and  passed  nine 
cheerful  months  among  the  scenes  dearest  to  his  recollection  : 
enjoying  the  kindness  of  those  unalterable  friends  whom 
Nature  had  given  him  ; and  the  admiring  deference  of  those 
by  whom  it  was  most  delightful  to  be  honoured, — -those  who 
had  known  him  in  adverse  and  humbler  circumstances, 
whether  they  might  have  respected  or  contemned  him.  By 
the  Grand  Duke,  his  ancient  censor  and  patron,  he  was  not 
interfered  with  ; that  prince,  iu  answer  to  a previous  applica- 
tion on  the  subject,  having  indirectly  engaged  to  take  no 
notice  of  this  journey.  The  Grand  Duke  had  already  inter- 
fered too  much  with  him,  and  bitterly  repented  of  his  inter- 
ference. Next  year  he  died  ; an  event  which  Schiller,  who 
had  long  forgotten  past  ill-treatment,  did  not  learn  without 


126 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


true  sorrow,  and  grateful  recollections  of  bygone  kindness. 
The  new  sovereign,  anxious  to  repair  the  injustice  of  his  pred- 
ecessor, almost  instantly  made  offer  of  a vacant  Tubingen  pro- 
fessorship to  Schiller ; a proposal  flattering  to  the  latter,  but 
which,  by  the  persuasion  of  the  Duke  of  Weimar,  he  respect- 
fully declined. 

Amid  labours  and  amusements  so  multiplied,  amid  such 
variety  of  intellectual  exertion  and  of  intercourse  with  men, 
Schiller,  it  was  clear,  had  not  suffered  the  encroachments  of 
bodily  disease  to  undermine  the  vigour  of  his  mental  or  moral 
powers.  No  period  of  his  life  displayed  in  stronger  colours 
the  lofty  and  determined  zeal  of  his  character.  He  had 
already  written  much  ; his  fame  stood  upon  a firm  basis  ; 
domestic  wants  no  longer  called  upon  him  for  incessant 
effort  ; and  his  frame  was  pining  under  the  slow  canker  of  an 
incurable  malady.  Yet  he  never  loitered,  never  rested  ; his 
fervid  spirit,  which  had  vanquished  opposition  and  oppression 
in  his  youth  ; which  had  struggled  against  harassing  uncer- 
tainties, and  passed  unsullied  through  many  temptations,  in 
his  earlier  manhood,  did  not  now  yield  to  this  last  and  most 
fatal  enemy.  The  present  was  the  busiest,  most  productive 
season  of  his  literary  life  ; and  with  all  its  drawbacks,  it  was 
probably  the  happiest.  Violent  attacks  from  his  disorder 
were  of  rare  occurrence  ; and  its  constant  influence,  the  dark 
vapours  with  which  it  would  have  overshadowed  the  faculties 
of  his  head  and  heart,  were  repelled  by  diligence  and  a coura- 
geous exertion  of  his  will.  In  other  points,  he  had  little  to 
complain  of,  and  much  to  rejoice  in.  He  was  happy  in  his 
family,  the  chosen  scene  of  his  sweetest,  most  lasting  satisfac- 
tion ; by  the  world  he  was  honoured  and  admired  ; his  wants 
were  provided  for  ; he  had  tasks  which  inspired  and  occupied 
him  ; friends  who  loved  him,  and  whom  he  loved.  Schiller 
had  much  to  enjoy,  and  most  of  it  he  owed  to  himself. 

In  his  mode  of  life  at  Jena,  simplicity  and  uniformity  were 
the  most  conspicuous  qualities ; the  single  excess  which  he 
admitted  being  that  of  zeal  in  the  pursuits  of  literature,  the 
sin  which  all  his  life  had  most  easily  beset  him.  His  health 
had  suffered  much,  and  principally,  it  was  thought,  from  the 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


127 


practice  of  composing  by  night : yet  the  charms  of  this  prac- 
tice were  still  too  great  for  his  self-denial ; and,  except  in 
severe  fits  of  sickness,  he  could  not  discontinue  it.  The 
highest,  proudest  pleasure  of  his  mind  was  that  glow  of  in- 
tellectual production,  that  ‘fine  frenzy,’  which  makes  the 
poet,  while  it  lasts,  a new  and  nobler  creature  ; exalting  him 
into  brighter  regions,  adorned  by  visions  of  magnificence  and 
beauty,  and  delighting  all  his  faculties  by  the  intense  con- 
sciousness of  their  exerted  power.  To  enjoy  this  pleasure  in 
perfection,  the  solitary  stillness  of  night,  diffusing  its  solemn 
influence  over  thought  as  well  as  earth  and  air,  had  at  length 
in  Schiller’s  case  grown  indispensable.  For  this  purpose, 
accordingly,  he  was  accustomed,  in  the  present,  as  in  former 
periods,  to  invert  the  common  order  of  things  : by  day  he 
read,  refreshed  himself  with  the  aspect  of  nature,  conversed 
or  corresponded  with  his  friends  ; but  he  wrote  and  studied 
in  the  night.  And  as  his  bodily  feelings  were  too  often  those 
of  languor  and  exhaustion,  he  adopted,  in  impatience  of  such 
mean  impediments,  the  pernicious  expedient  of  stimulants, 
which  yield  a momentary  strength,  only  to  waste  our  remain- 
ing fund  of  it  more  speedily  and  surely. 

‘ During  summer,  his  place  of  study  was  in  a garden,  which 
at  length  he  purchased,  in  the  suburbs  of  Jena,  not  far  from 
the  Weselh5fts’  house,  where  at  that  time  was  the  office  of 
the  Allgemeine  Litter atur-Zeitung.  Beckoning  from  the 
market-place  of  Jena,  it  lies  on  the  south-west  border  of  the 
town,  between  the  Engelgatter  and  the  Neuthor,  in  a hollow 
defile,  through  which  a part  of  the  Leutrabach  flows  round 
the  city.  On  the  top  of  the  acclivity,  from  which  there  is  a 
beautiful  prospect  into  the  valley  of  the  Saal,  and  the  fir 
mountains  of  the  neighbouring  forest,  Schiller  built  himself  a 
small  house,  with  a single  chamber.1  It  was  his  favourite 
abode"  during  hours  of  composition  ; a great  part  of  the  works 
he  then  wrote  were  written  here.  In  winter  he  likewise 
dwelt  apart  from  the  noise  of  men  ; in  the  Griesbachs’  house, 
on  the  outside  of  the  city-trench.  * * * On  sitting  down 

1 ‘The  street  leading  from  Schiller’s  dwelling-house  to  this,  was  Ly 
some  wags  named  the  Xenien-gcme  ; a name  not  yet  entirely  disused.  ’ 


128 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


to  liis  desk  at  night,  he  was  wont  to  keep  some  strong  coffee, 
or  wine-chocolate,  but  more  frequently  a flask  of  old  Ehenish, 
or  Champagne,  standing  by  him,  that  he  might  from  tirpe  to 
time  repair  the  exhaustion  of  nature.  Often  the  neighbours 
used  to  hear  him  earnestly  declaiming,  in  the  silence  of  the 
night : and  whoever  had  an  opportunity  of  Watching  him  on 
such  occasions,  a thing  very  easy  to  be  done  from  the  heights 
lying  opposite  his  little  garden-house,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  dell,  might  see  him  now  speaking  aloud  and  walking 
swiftly  to  and  fro  in  his  chamber,  then  suddenly  throwing 
himself  down  into  his  chair  and  writing  ; and  drinking  the 
while,  sometimes  more  than  once,  from  the  glass  standing 
near  him.  In  winter  he  was  to  be  found  at  his  desk  till 
four,  or  even  five  o’clock  in  the  morning  ; in  summer,  till 
towards  three.  He  then  went  to  bed,  from  which  he  seldom 
rose  till  nine  or  ten.’ 1 

Had  prudence  been  the  dominant  quality  in  Schiller’s  char- 
acter, this  practice  would  undoubtedly  have  been  abandoned, 
or  rather  never  taken  up.  It  was  an  error  so  to  waste  his 
strength  ; but  one  of  those  which  increase  rather  than  dimin- 
ish our  respect ; originating,  as  it  did,  in  generous  ardour  for 
what  was  best  and  grandest,  they  must  be  cold  censurers  that 
can  condemn  it  harshly.  For  ourselves,  we  but  lament  and 
honour  this  excess  of  zeal ; its  effects  were  mournful,  but  its 
origin  was  noble.  Who  can  picture  Schiller’s  feelings  iu  this 
solitude,  without  participating  in  some  faint  reflection  of  their 
grandeur ! The  toil-worn  but  devoted  soul,  alone,  under  the 
silent  starry  canopy  of  Night,  offering  up  the  troubled  mo- 
ments of  existence  on  the  altar  of  Eternity ! For  here  the 
splendour  that  gleamed  across  the  spirit  of  a mortal,  transient 
as  one  of  us,  was  made  to  be  perpetual ; these  images  and 
thoughts  Avere  to  pass  into  other  ages  and  distant  lands  ; to 
glow  in  human  hearts,  when  the  heart  that  conceived  them 
had  long  been  mouldered  into  common  dust.  To  the  lovers 
of  genius,  this  little  garden-house  might  liaA'e  been  a place  to 
visit  as  a chosen  shrine  ; nor  Avill  they  learn  Avithout  regret 
that  the  Avails  of  it,  yielding  to  the  hand  of  time,  have  already 
‘Doering,  pp.  118-131. 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


129 


crumbled  into  ruin,  and  are  now  no  longer  to  be  traced.  The 
piece  of  ground  that  it  stood  on  is  itself  hallowed  with  a glory 
that  is  bright,  pure  and  abiding ; but  the  literary  pilgrim 
could  not  have  surveyed,  without  peculiar  emotion,  the  simple 
chamber,  in  which  Schiller  wrote  the  Reich  der  Schatten,  the 
Spaziergang,  the  Ideal , and  the  immortal  scenes  of  Wallen- 
stein. 

The  last-named  work  had  cost  him  many  an  anxious,  given 
him  many  a pleasant,  hour.  For  seven  years  it  had  continued 
in  a state  of  irregular,  and  oft-suspended  progress  ; sometimes 
* lying  endless  and  formless  ’ before  him  ; sometimes  on  the 
point  of  being  given  up  altogether.  The  multitude  of  ideas, 
which  he  wished  to  incorporate  in  the  structure  of  the  piece, 
retarded  him  ; and  the  difficulty  of  contenting  his  taste,  re- 
specting the  manner  of  effecting  this,  retarded  him  still  more. 
In  Wallenstein  he  wished  to  embody  the  more  enlarged  no- 
tions which  experience  had  given  him  of  men,  especially  which 
history  had  given  him  of  generals  and  statesmen  ; and  while 
putting  such  characters  in  action,  to  represent  whatever  was, 
or  could  be  made,  poetical,  in  the  stormy  period  of  the  Thirty- 
Years  War.  As  he  meditated  on  the  subject,  it  continued  to 
expand  ; in  his  fancy,  it  assumed  successively  a thousand 
forms  ; and  after  all  due  strictness  of  selection,  such  was  still 
the  extent  of  materials  remaining  on  his  hands,  that  he  found 
it  necessary  to  divide  the  play  into  three  parts,  distinct  in 
their  arrangements,  but  in  truth  forming  a continuous  drama 
of  eleven  acts.  In  this  shape  it  was  sent  forth  to  the  world, 
in  1799  ; a work  of  labour  and  persevering  anxiety,  but  of 
anxiety  and  labour,  as  it  then  appeared,  which  had  not  been 
bestowed  in  vain.  Wallenstein  is  by  far  the  best  performance 
he  had  yet  produced  ; it  merits  a long  chapter  of  criticism  by 
itself ; and  a few  hurried  pages  are  all  that  we  can  spend  on  it. 

As  a porch  to  the  great  edifice  stands  Part  first,  entitled 
Wallenstein’s  Camp,  a piece  in  one  act.  It  paints,  with  much 
humour  and  graphical  felicity,  the  manners  of  that  rude  tu- 
multuous host  which  Wallenstein  presided  over,  and  had  made 
the  engine  of  his  ambitious  schemes.  Schiller’s  early  experi- 
ence of  a military  life  seems  now  to  have  stood  him  in  good 
9 


130 


THE  LIVE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


stead  : liis  soldiers  are  delineated  with  the  distinctness  of 
actual  observation  ; in  rugged  sharpness  of  feature,  they  some- 
times remind  us  of  Smollett’s  seamen.  Here  are  all  the  wild 
lawless  spirits  of  Europe  assembled  within  the  circuit  of  a 
single  trench.  Violent,  tempestuous,  unstable  is  the  life  they 
lead.  Ishmaelites,  their  hands  against  every  man,  and  every 
man’s  hand  against  them  ; the  instruments  of  rapine  ; tar- 
nished with  almost  every  vice,  and  knowing  scarcely  any  vir- 
tue but  those  of  reckless  bravery  and  uncalculating  obedience 
to  their  leader,  their  situation  still  presents  some  aspects 
which  affect  or  amuse  us  ; and  these  the  poet  has  seized  with 
his  accustomed  skill.  Much  of  the  cruelty  and  repulsive  harsh- 
ness of  these  soldiers,  we  are  taught  to  forget  in  contemplating 
their  forlorn  houseless  wanderings,  and  the  practical  magna- 
nimity, with  which  even  they  contrive  to  wring  from  Fortune 
a tolerable  scantling  of  enjoyment.  Their  manner  of  exist- 
ence Wallenstein  has,  at  an  after  period  of  the  action,  rather 
movingly  expressed  : 

‘ Our  life  was  but  a battle  and  a march, 

And,  like  the  wind’s  blast,  never-resting,  homeless, 

We  storm  d across  the  war-convulsed  Earth.’ 

Still  farther  to  soften  the  asperities  of  the  scene,  the  dialogue 
is  cast  into  a rude  Hudibrastic  metre,  full  of  forced  rhymes, 
and  strange  double-endings,  with  a rhythm  ever  changing,  ever 
rough  and  lively,  which  might  almost  be  compared  to  the  hard, 
irregular,  fluctuating  sound  of  the  regimental  drum.  In  this 
ludicrous  doggerel,  with  phrases  and  figures  of  a correspondent 
cast,  homely,  ridiculous,  graphic,  these  men  of  service  paint 
their  hopes  and  doings.  There  are  ranks  and  kinds  among 
them  ; representatives  of  all  the  constituent  parts  of  the  mot- 
ley multitude,  which  followed  this  prince  of  Condoltieri.  The 
solemn  pedantry  of  the  ancient  Wachtmeister  is  faithfully 
given  ; no  less  so  are  the  jocund  ferocity  and  heedless  daring 
of  Holky’s  Jagers,  or  the  iron  corn-age  and  stern  camp-philoso- 
phy of  Pappenlieim’s  Cuirassiers.  Of  the  Jager  the  sole  prin- 
ciple  is  military  obedience  ; he  does  not  reflect  or  calculate  ; 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


131 


liis  business  is  to  do  whatever  he  is  ordered,  and  to  enjoy 
whatever  he  can  reach.  ‘ Free  wished  I to  live,’  he  says, 

‘ Free  wished  I to  live,  and  easy  and  gay, 

And  see  something  new  on  each  new  day  ; 

In  the  joys  of  the  moment  lustily  sharing, 

’Bout  the  past  or  the  future  not  thinking  or  caring  : 

To  the  Kaiser,  therefore,  I sold  my  bacon, 

And  by  him  good  charge  of  the  whole  is  taken. 

Order  me  on  ’mid  the  whistling  fiery'  shot, 

Over  the  Rhine-stream  rapid  and  roaring  wide, 

A third  of  the  troop  must  go  to  pot, — 

Without  loss  of  time,  I mount  and  ride  ; 

But  farther,  I beg  very  much,  do  you  see, 

That  in  all  things  else  you  would  leave  me  free.’ 

The  Pappenheimer  is  an  older  man,  more  sedate  and  more  in- 
domitable ; he  has  wandered  over  Europe,  and  gathered  settled 
maxims  of  soldierly  principle  and  soldierly  privilege  : he  is  not 
without  a rationale  of  life  ; the  various  professions  of  men  have 
passed  in  review  before  him,  but  no  coat  that  he  has  seen  has 
pleased  him  like  his  own  ‘ steel  doublet,’  cased  in  which,  it  is 
his  wish, 

‘ Looking  down  on  the  world’s  poor  restless  scramble, 

Careless,  through  it,  astride  of  his  nag  to  ramble.’ 

Yet  at  times  with  this  military  stoicism  there  is  blended  a 
dash  of  homely  pathos  ; he  admits, 

‘ This  sword  of  ours  is  no  plough  or  spade, 

You  cannot  delve  or  reap  with  the  iron  blade  ; 

For  us  there  falls  no  seed,  no  corn-field  grows, 

Neither  home  nor  kindred  the  soldier  knows : 

Wandering  over  the  face  of  the  earth, 

Warming  his  hands  at  another’s  hearth  : 

From  the  pomp  of  towns  he  must  onward  roam  ; 

In  the  village-green  with  its  cheerful  game, 

In  the  mii-tli  of  the  vintage  or  harvest-home, 

No  part  or  lot  can  the  soldier  claim. 

Tell  me  then,  in  the  place  of  goods  or  pelf, 

What  has  he  unless  to  honour  himself  ? 

Leave  not  even  this  his  own,  what  wonder 
The  man  should  burn  and  kill  and  plunder  ? ’ 


132 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  RICH  SCHILLER. 


But  the  camp  of  "Wallenstein  is  full  of  bustle  as  well  as 
speculation  ; there  are  gamblers,  peasants,  sutlers,  soldiers, 
recruits.  Capuchin  friars,  moving  to  and  fro  in  restless  pursuit 
of  their  several  purposes.  The  sermon  of  the  Capuchin  is  an 
unparalleled  composition  ; 1 a medley  of  texts,  puns,  nick- 
names, and  verbal  logic,  conglutinated  by  a stupid  judgment, 
and  a fiery  catholic  zeal.  It  seems  to  be  delivered  with  great 
unction,  and  to  find  fit  audience  in  the  camp  : towards  the  con- 
clusion they  rush  upon  him,  and  he  narrowly  escapes  killing  or 
ducking,  for  having  ventured  to  glance  a censure  at  the  Gen- 
eral. The  soldiers  themselves  are  jeering,  wrangling,  jostling  ; 
discussing  their  wishes  and  expectations  ; and,  at  last,  they 
combine  in  a profound  deliberation  on  the  state  of  their  affairs. 
A vague  exaggerated  outline  of  the  coming  events  and  person- 
ages is  imaged  to  us  in  their  coarse  conceptions.  We  dimly 
discover  the  precarious  position  of  Wallenstein  ; the  plots 
which  threaten  him,  which  he  is  meditating : we  trace  the 
leading  qualities  of  the  principal  officers  ; and  form  a high 
estimate  of  the  potent  spirit  which  binds  this  fierce  discordant 
mass  together,  and  seems  to  be  the  object  of  universal  rever- 
ence where  nothing  else  is  revered. 

In  the  Two  Ticcolomini,  the  next  division  of  the  work,  the 
generals  for  whom  we  have  thus  been  prepared  appear  in  per- 
son on  the  scene,  and  spread  out  before  us  their  plots  and 
counterplots  ; Wallenstein,  through  personal  ambition  and 
evil  counsel,  slowly  resolving  to  revolt ; and  Octavio  Picco- 
lomini,  in  secret,  undermining  his  influence  among  the  lead- 
era,  and  preparing  for  him  that  pit  of  ruin,  into  which,  in  the 
third  Part,  Wallenstein’s  Death,  we  see  him  sink  with  all  his 
fortunes.  The  military  spirit  which  pervades  the  former  piece 
is  here  well  sustained.  The  ruling  motives  of  these  captains 
and  colonels  are  a little  more  refined,  or  more  disguised,  than 

1 Said  to  tie  by  Goetlie  ; the  materials  faithfully  extracted  from  a real 
sermon  (by  the  Jesuit  Santa  Clara)  of  the  period  it  refers  to. — There 
were  various  Jesuits  Santa  Clara,  of  that  period  : this  is  the  German  one, 
Abraham  by  name  ; specimens  of  whose  Sermons,  a fervent  kind  of 
preacliing-run-mad,  have  been  reprinted  in  late  years,  for  dilettante 
purposes.  {Note  of  1845. ) 


SCIULLER  AT  JENA. 


133 


those  of  the  Cuirassiers  and  Jagers  ; but  they  are  the  same  in 
substance  ; the  love  of  present  or  future  pleasure,  of  action, 
reputation,  money,  power  ; selfishness,  but  selfishness  dis- 
tinguished by  a superficial  external  propriety,  and  gilded  over 
with  the  splendour  of  military  honour,  of  courage  inflexible, 
yet  light,  cool  and  unassuming.  These  are  not  imaginary 
heroes,  but  genuine  hired  men  of  war  : we  do  not  love  them  ; 
yet  there  is  a pomp  about  their  operations,  which  agreeably 
fills  up  the  scene.  This  din  of  war,  this  clash  of  tumultuous 
conflicting  interests,  is  felt  as  a suitable  accompaniment  to  the 
affecting  or  commanding  movements  of  the  chief  characters 
whom  it  envelops  or  obeys. 

Of  the  individuals  that  figure  in  this  world  of  war,  Wallen- 
stein himself,  the  strong  Atlas  which  supports  it  all,  is  by  far 
the  most  imposing.  Wallenstein  is  the  model  of  a high- 
souled,  great,  accomplished  man,  whose  ruling  passion  is  am- 
bition. He  is  daring  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  manhood  ; he  is 
enthusiastic  and  vehement ; but  the  fire  of  his  soul  burns  hid 
beneath  a deep  stratum  of  prudence,  guiding  itself  by  calcula- 
tions which  extend  to  the  extreme  limits  of  his  most  minute 
concerns.  This  prudence,  sometimes  almost  bordering  on 
irresolution,  forms  the  outward  rind  of  his  character,  and  for  a 
while  is  the  only  quality  which  we  discover  in  it.  The  im- 
mense influence  which  his  genius  appears  to  exert  on  every 
individual  of  his  many  followers,  prepares  us  to  expect  a great 
man  ; and,  when  Wallenstein,  after  long  delay  and  much  fore- 
warning, is  in  fine  presented  to  us,  we  at  first  experience 
something  like  a disappointment.  We  find  him,  indeed,  pos- 
sessed of  a staid  grandeur  ; yet  involved  in  mystery  ; wavering 
between  two  opinions  ; and,  as  it  seems,  with  all  his  wisdom, 
blindly  credulous  in  matters  of  the  highest  import.  It  is  only 
when  events  have  forced  decision  on  him,  that  he  rises  in  his 
native  might,  that  his  giant  spirit  stands  unfolded  in  its 
strength  before  us  ; 

‘ Night  must  it  he,  ere  FriedlancTs  star  will  beam  : ’ 

amid  difficulties,  darkness  and  impending  ruin,  at  which  the 
boldest  of  his  followers  grow  pale,  he  himself  is  calm,  and  first 


134 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  RICH  SCHILLER. 


in  this  awful  crisis  feels  the  serenity  and  conscious  strength 
of  his  soul  return.  Wallenstein,  in  fact,  though  preeminent 
in  power,  both  external  and  internal,  of  high  intellect  and 
commanding  will,  skilled  in  war  and  statesmanship  beyond 
the  best  in  Europe,  the  idol  of  sixty  thousand  feai'less  hearts, 
is  not  yet  removed  above  our  sympathy.  We  are  united  with 
him  by  feelings  which  he  reckons  weak,  though  they  belong 
to  the  most  generous  parts  of  his  nature.  His  indecision 
partly  takes  its  rise  in  the  sensibilities  of  his  heart,  as  well  as 
in  the  cast-ion  of  his  judgment : his  belief  in  astrology,  which 
gives  force  and  confirmation  to  this  tendency,  originates  in 
some  soft  kindly  emotions,  and  adds  a new  interest  to  the 
spirit  of  the  warrior  ; it  humbles  him,  to  whom  the  earth  is 
subject,  before  those  mysterious  Powers  which  weigh  the  des- 
tinies of  man  in  their  balance,  in  whose  eyes  the  greatest  and 
the  least  of  mortals  scarcely  differ  in  littleness.  Wallenstein’s 
confidence  in  the  friendship  of  Octavio,  his  disinterested  love 
for  Max  Piccolomini,  his  paternal  and  brotherly  kindness,  are 
feelings  which  cast  an  affecting  lustre  over  the  harsher,  more 
heroic  qualities  wherewith  they  are  combined.  His  treason 
to  the  Emperor  is  a crime,  for  which,  provoked  and  tempted 
as  he  was,  we  do  not  greatly  blame  him  ; it  is  forgotten  in  our 
admiration  of  his  nobleness,  or  recollected  only  as  a venial 
trespass.  Schiller  has  succeeded  well  with  Wallenstein,  where 
it  was  not  easy  to  succeed.  The  truth  of  history  lias  been  but 
little  violated  ; yet  we  are  compelled  to  feel  that  Wallenstein, 
whose  actions  individually  are  trifling,  unsuccessful,  and  un- 
lawful, is  a strong,  sublime,  commanding  character ; we  look 
at  him  with  interest,  our  concern  at  his  fate  is  tinged  with  a 
shade  of  kindly  pity. 

In  Octavio  Piccolomini,  his  war-companion,  we  can  find  less 
fault,  yet  we  take  less  pleasure.  Octavio’s  qualities  are  chiefly 
negative  : he  rather  walks  by  the  letter  of  the  moral  law,  than 
by  its  spirit  ; his  conduct  is  externally  correct,  but  there  is  no 
touch  of  generosity  within.  He  is  more  of  the  corn-tier  than 
of  the  soldier  : his  weapon  is  intrigue,  not  force.  Believing 
firmly  that  ‘ whatever  is,  is  best,’  he  distrusts  all  new  and  ex- 
traordinary things  ; he  has  no  faith  in  human  nature,  and 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


135 


seems  to  be  virtuous  himself  more  by  calculation  than  by  im- 
pulse. We  scarcely  thank  him  for  his  loyalty  ; serving  his 
Emperor,  he  ruins  and  betrays  his  friend  : and,  besides, 
though  he  does  not  own  it,  personal  ambition  is  among  his 
leading  motives  ; he  wishes  to  be  general  and  prince,  and 
Wallenstein  is  not  only  a traitor  to  his  sovereign,  but  a bar 
to  this  advancement.  It  is  true,  Octavio  does  not  personally 
tempt  him  towards  his  destruction ; but  neither  does  he 
warn  him  from  it  ; and  perhaps  he  knew  that  fresh  tempta- 
tion was  superfluous.  Wallenstein  did  not  deserve  such  treat- 
ment from  a man  whom  he  had  trusted  as  a brother,  even 
though  such  confidence  was  blind,  and  guided  by  visions  and 
starry  omens.  Octavio  is  a skilful,  prudent,  managing  states- 
man ; of  the  kind  praised  loudly,  if  not  sincerely,  by  their 
friends,  and  detested  deeply  by  their  enemies.  His  object 
may  be  lawful  or  even  laudable  ; but  his  ways  are  crooked ; 
we  dislike  him  but  the  more  that  we  know  not  positively 
how  to  blame  him. 

Octavio  Piccolomini  and  Wallenstein  are,  as  it  were,  the 
two  opposing  forces  by  which  this  whole  universe  of  military 
politics  is  kept  in  motion.  The  struggle  of  magnanimity  and 
strength  combined  with  treason,  against  cunning  and  apparent 
virtue,  aided  by  law,  gives  rise  to  a series  of  great  actions, 
which  are  here  vividly  presented  to  our  Hew.  We  mingle  in 
the  clashing  interests  of  these  men  of  war ; we  see  them  at 
their  gorgeous  festivals  and  stormy  consultations,  and  partici- 
pate in  the  hopes  or  fears  that  agitate  them.  The  subject  had 
many  capabilities  ; and  Schiller  has  turned  them  all  to  profit. 
Our  minds  are  kept  alert  by  a constant  succession  of  animat- 
ing scenes  of  spectacle,  dialogue,  incident : the  plot  thickens 
and  darkens  as  we  advance  ; the  interest  deepens  and  deepens 
to  the  very  end. 

But  among  the  tumults  of  this  busy  multitude,  there  are 
two  forms  of  celestial  beauty  that  solicit  our  attention,  and 
whose  destiny,  involved  with  that  of  those  around  them,  gives 
it  an  importance  in  our  eyes  which  it  could  not  otherwise 
have  had.  Max  Piccolomini,  Octavio’s  son,  and  Thekla,  the 
daughter  of  Wallenstein,  diffuse  an  ethereal  radiance  over  all 


13(3 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


this  tragedy  ; they  call  forth  the  finest  feelings  of  the  heart, 
where  other  feelings  had  already  been  aroused  ; they  superadd 
to  the  stirring  pomp  of  scenes,  which  had  already  kindled  our 
imaginations,  the  enthusiasm  of  bright  unworn  humanity, 
‘ the  bloom  of  young  desire,  the  purple  light  of  love.’  The 
history  of  Mas  and  Thekla  is  not  a rare  one  in  poetry ; but 
Schiller  has  treated  it  with  a skill  which  is  extremely  rare. 
Both  of  them  are  represented  as  combining  every  excellence  ; 
their  affection  is  instantaneous  and  unbounded  ; yet  the  cool- 
est, most  sceptical  reader  is  forced  to  admire  them,  and  be- 
lieve in  them. 

Of  Max  we  are  taught  from  the  first  to  form  the  highest 
expectations  : the  common  soldiers  and  their  captains  speak 
of  him  as  of  a perfect  hero  ; the  Cuirassiers  had,  at  Pappen- 
heim’s  death,  on  the  field  of  Liitzen,  appointed  him  their  colo- 
nel by  unanimous  election.  His  appearance  answers  these 
ideas  : Max  is  the  very  spirit  of  honour,  and  integrity,  and 
young  ardour,  personified.  Though  but  passing  into  maturer 
age,  he  has  already  seen  and  suffered  much ; but  the  experi- 
ence of  the  man  has  not  yet  deadened  or  dulled  the  enthusi- 
asm of  the  boy.  He  has  lived,  since  his  very  childhood,  con- 
stantly amid  the  clang  of  war,  and  with  few  ideas  but  those 
of  camps  ; yet  here,  by  a native  instinct,  his  heart  has  attracted 
to  it  all  that  was  noble  and  graceful  in  the  trade  of  arms, 
rejecting  all  that  was  impulsive  or  ferocious.  He  loves  Wal- 
lenstein his  patron,  his  gallant  and  majestic  leader  : he  loves 
his  present  way  of  life,  because  it  is  one  of  peril  and  excite- 
ment, because  he  knows  no  other,  but  chiefly  because  his 
young  unsullied  spirit  can  shed  a resplendent  beauty  over 
even  the  wastes!  region  in  the  destiny  of  man.  Yet  though 
a soldier,  and  the  bravest  of  soldiers,  he  is  not  this  alone. 
He  feels  that  there  are  fairer  scenes  in  life,  which  these  scenes 
of  havoc  and  distress  but -deform  or  destroy  ; his  first  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Princess  Thekla  unveils  to  him  another 
world,  which  till  then  he  had  not  dreamed  of ; a land  of  peace 
and  serene  elysian  felicity,  the  charms  of  which  he  paints 
with  simple  and  unrivalled  eloquence.  Max  is  not  more 
daring  than  affectionate  ; he  is  merciful  and  gentle,  though 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


137 


liis  training  has  been  under  tents  ; modest  and  altogether 
unpretending,  though  young  and  universally  admired.  We 
conceive  his  aspect  to  be  thoughtful  but  fervid,  dauntless  but 
mild  : he  is  the  very  poetry  of  war,  the  essence  of  a youthful 
hero.  We  should  have  loved  him  anywhere  ; but  here,  amid 
barren  scenes  of  strife  and  danger,  he  is  doubly  dear  to  us. 

His  first  appearance  wins  our  favour ; his  eloquence  in  sen- 
timent prepares  us  to  expect  no  common  magnanimity  in 
action.  It  is  as  follows  : Octavio  and  Questenberg  are  consult- 
ing on  affairs  of  state  ; Max  enters  : he  is  just  returned  from 
convoying  the  Princess  TheJcla  and  her  mother,  the  daughter 
and  the  wife  of  Friedland,  to  the  camp  at  Pilsen. 

Act  I.  Scene  IV. 

Max  Piccolomini,  Octavio  Piccolomini,  Questenberg. 

Max.  ’Tis  lie  himself  ! My  father,  welcome,  welcome  ! 

[He  embraces  Mm : on  turning  round , he  observes  Questenberg, 
and  draws  coldly  back. 

Busied,  I perceive  ? I will  not  interrupt  you. 

Oct.  How  now,  Max  ? View  this  stranger  better ! 

An  old  friend  deserves  regard  and  kindness  ; 

The  Kaiser’s  messenger  should  be  rever’d  ! 

Max  [drily].  Von  Questenberg  ! If  it  is  good  that  brings  you 
To  our  head-quarters,  welcome  ! 

Quest  [lias  taken  Ms  hand ].  Nay,  draw  not 
Your  hand  away,  Count  Piccolomini ! 

Not  on  mine  own  account  alone  I grasp  it, 

And  nothing  common  will  I say  therewith. 

Octavio,  Max,  Piccolomini ! [ Taking  both  their  hands. 

Names  of  benignant  solemn  import ! Never 
Can  Austria’s  fortune  fail  while  two  such  stars, 

To  guide  and  guard  her,  gleam  above  our  hosts. 

Max.  You  play  it  wrong,  Sir  Minister  ! To  praise, 

I wot,  you  come  not  hither  ; to  blame  and  censure 
You  are  come.  Let  me  be  no  exception. 

Oct.  [to  Max\.  He  comes  from  Court,  where  every  one  is  not 
So  well  contented  with  the  Duke  as  here. 

Max  And  what  new  fault  have  they  to  charge  him  with  ? 

That  he  alone  decides  what  he  alone 

Can  understand  ? Well!  Should  it  not  be  so  ? 

It  should  and  must ! This  man  was  never  made 


133 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


To  ply  and  mould  himself  like  wax  to  others  : 

It  goes  against  his  heart ; he  cannot  do  it, 

He  has  the  spirit  of  a ruler,  and 
The  station  of  a ruler.  Well  for  us 
It  is  so  ! Few  can  rule  themselves,  can  use 
Their  wisdom  wisely  : happy  for  the  whole 
Where  there  is  one  among  them  that  can  be 
A centre  and  a hold  for  many  thousands ; 

That  can  plant  himself  like  a firm  column, 

For  the  whole  to  lean  on  safely  ! Such  a one 
Is  Wallenstein  ; some  other  man  might  better 
Serve  the  Court,  none  else  could  serve  the  Army. 

Quest.  The  Army,  truly  ! 

Max.  And  it  is  a pleasure 

To  behold  how  all  awakes  and  strengthens 
And  revives  around  him  ; how  men  s faculties 
Come  forth  ; their  gifts  grow  plainer  to  themselves  ! 

From  each  he  can  elicit  his  endowment, 

His  peculiar  power  ; and  does  it  wisely  ; 

Leaving  each  to  be  the  man  he  found  him, 

Watching  only  that  he  always  be  so 

I’  th’  proper  place  : and  thus  he  makes  the  talents 

Of  all  mankind  his  own. 

Quest.  No  one  denies  him 

Skill  in  men,  and  skill  to  use  them.  His  fault  is 
That  in  the  ruler  he  forgets  the  servant, 

As  if  he  had  been  born  to  be  commander. 

Max.  And  is  he  not  ? By  birth  he  is  invested 
With  all  gifts  for  it,  and  with  the  farther  gift 
Of  finding  scope  to  use  them ; of  acquiring 
For  the  ruler's  faculties  the  ruler’s  office. 

Quest.  So  that  how  far  the  rest  of  us  have  rights 
Or  influence,  if  any,  lies  with  Friedland  ? 

Max.  He  is  no  common  person  ; he  requires 
No  common  confidence  : allow  him  space  ; 

The  proper  limit  he  himself  will  set. 

Quest.  The  trial  shows  it ! 

Max.  Ay ! Thus  it  is  with  them ! 

Still  so  ! All  frights  them  that  has  any  depth  ; 

Nowhere  are  they  at  ease  but  in  the  shallows. 

Oct.  [to  Quest.  ] Let  him  have  his  way,  my  friend  ! The  argument 
Will  not  avail  irs. 

Max.  They  invoke  the  spirit 

I’  th’  hour  of  need,  and  shudder  when  he  rises. 

The  great,  the  wonderful,  must  be  accomplished 


SCIIILLER  AT  JENA. 


139 


Like  a tiling  of  course  ! — In  war,  in  battle, 

A moment  is  decisive  ; on  tlie  spot 
Must  be  determin’d,  in  the  instant  done. 

With  ev’ry  noble  quality  of  nature 

The  leader  must  be  gifted  : let  him  live,  then, 

In  their  noble  sphere  ! The  oracle  within  him, 

The  living  spirit,  not  dead  books,  old  forms, 

Not  mould’ring  parchments  must  he  take  to  counsel. 

Oct.  My  Son  ! despise  not  these  old  narrow  forms ! 
They  are  as  barriers,  precious  walls  and  fences, 

Which  oppressed  mortals  have  erected 
To  mod’rate  the  rash  will  of  their  oppressors. 

For  the  uncontrolled  has  ever  been  destructive. 

The  way  of  Order,  though  it  lead  through  windings, 

Is  the  best.  Right  forward  goes  the  lightning 
And  the  cannon-ball : quick,  by  the  nearest  path, 

They  come,  op’ning  with  murderous  crash  their  way, 
To  blast  and  ruin  ! My  Son  ! the  quiet  road 
Which  men  frequent,  where  peace  and  blessings  travel, 
Follows  the  river’s  course,  the  valley’s  bendings; 
Modest  skirts  the  cornfield  and  the  vineyard, 

Revering  property’s  appointed  bounds  ; 

And  leading  safe  though  slower  to  the  mark. 

Quest.  O,  hear  your  Father  ! him  who  is  at  once 
A hero  and  a man  ! 

Oct.  It  is  the  child 

O’  th’  camp  that  speaks  in  thee,  my  Son  : a war 
Of  fifteen  years  has  nursed  and  taught  thee  ; peace 
Thou  hast  never  seen.  My  Son,  there  is  a worth 
Beyond  the  worth  of  warriors  : evil  in  war  itself 
The  object  is  not  war.  The  rapid  deeds 
Of  power,  tli’  astounding  wonders  of  the  moment — 

It  is  not  these  that  minister  to  man 
Aught  useful,  aught  benignant  or  enduring. 

In  haste  the  wandering  soldier  comes,  and  builds 
With  canvas  his  light  town  : here  in  a moment 
Is  a rushing  concourse  ; markets  open  ; 

Roads  and  rivers  crowd  with  merchandise 
And  people  ; Traffic  stirs  his  hundred  arms. 

Ere  long,  some  morning,  look,— and  it  is  gone! 

The  tents  are  struck,  the  host  lias  marched  away ; 

Dead  as  a churchyard  lies  the  trampled  seed-field, 

And  wasted  is  the  harvest  of  the  year. 

Max.  O Father  ! that  the  Kaiser  would  make  peace  ! 
The  bloody  laurel  I would  gladly  change 


140 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCIIILLER. 


For  the  first  violet  Spring  should,  offer  us, 

The  tiny  pledge  that  Earth  again  was  young  ! 

Oct.  How’s  this  ? What  is  it  that  affects  thee  so  ? 

Max.  Peace  I have  never  seen  ? Yes,  I have  seen  it ! 

Ev'n  now  I come  from  it : My  journey  led  me 
Through  lands  as  yet  unvisited  by  war. 

O Father  ! life  has  charms,  of  which  we  know  not : 

We  have  but  seen  the  barren  coasts  of  life  ; 

Like  some  wild  roving  crew  of  lawless  pirates, 

Who,  crowded  in  their  narrow  noisome  ship, 

Upon  the  rude  sea,  with  rude  manners  dwell ; 

Naught  of  the  fair  land  knowing  but  the  bays, 

Where  they  may  risk  their  hurried  thievish  landing. 

Of  the  loveliness  that,  in  its  peaceful  dales, 

The  land  conceals — O Father! — O,  of  this, 

In  our  wild  voyage  we  have  seen  no  glimpse. 

Oct.  [ gives  increased  attention ]. 

And  did  this  journey  show  thee  much  of  it  ? 

Max.  ’Twas  the  first  holida}'  of  my  existence. 

Tell  me,  where’s  the  end  of  all  this  labour, 

■ This  grinding  labour  that  has  stolen  my  youth, 

And  left  my  heart  uncheer’d  and  void,  my  spirit 
Uncultivated  as  a wilderness  ? 

This  camp’s  unceasing  din  ; the  neighing  steeds  ; 

The  trumpet’s  clang  ; the  never-changing  round 
Of  service,  discipline,  parade,  give  nothing 
To  the  heart,  the  heart  that  longs  for  nourishment. 

There  is  no  soul  in  this  insipid  bus’ness  ; 

Life  has  another  fate  and  other  joys. 

Oct.  Much  hast  thou  learn'd,  my  Son,  in  this  short  journey 
Max.  O blessed  bright  day,  when  at  last  the  soldier 
Shall  turn  back  to  life,  and  be  again  a man  ! 

Through  tli’  merry  lines  the  colours  are  unfurl’ d, 

And  homeward  beats  the  thrilling  soft  peace-march  ; 

All  hats  and  helmets  deck’d  with  leafy  spraj-s, 

The  last  spoil  of  the  fields ! The  city’s  gates 
Fly  up  ; now  needs  not  the  petard  to  burst  them : 

The  walls  ai-e  crowded  with  rejoicing  people  ; 

Their  shouts  ring  through  the  air : from  every  tower 
Blithe  bells  are  pealing  forth  the  merry  vesper 
Of  that  bloody  day.  From  town  and  hamlet 
Flow  the  jocund  thousands  ; with  their  hearty 
Kind  impetuosity  our  march  impeding. 

The  old  man,  weeping  that  he  sees  this  day, 

Embraces  his  long-lost  son  : a stranger 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


141 


He  revisits  liis  old  liome  ; with  spreading  boughs 
The  tree  o’ershadows  him  at  his  return, 

Which  waver’d  as  a twig  when  he  departed  ; 

And  modest  blushing  conies  a maid  to  meet  him, 

Whom  on  her  nurse’s  breast  he  left.  O happy, 

For  whom  some  kindly  door  like  this,  for  whom 
Soft  arms  to  clasp  him  shall  he  open'd  ! — 

Quest,  [with  emotion'].  O that 

The  time  you  speak  of  should  he  so  far  distant! 

Should  not  he  tomorrow,  he  today  ! 

Max.  And  who’s  to  blame  for  it  but  you  at  Court  ? 

I will  deal  plainly  with  you,  Questenberg  : 

When  I observ'd  you  here,  a twinge  of  spleen 
And  bitterness  went  through  me.  It  is  you 
That  hinder  peace  ; yes,  you.  The  General 
Must  force  it,  and  you  ever  keep  tormenting  him, 

Obstructing  all  his  steps,  abusing  him  ; 

For  what  ? Because  the  good  of  Europe  lies 
Hearer  his  heart,  than  whether  certain  acres 
More  or  less  of  dirty  land  be  Austria's  ! 

You  call  him  traitor,  rebel,  God  knows  what, 

Because  he  spares  the  Saxons  ; as  if  that 
Were  not  the  only  way  to  peace  ; for  how 
If  during  war,  war  end  not,  can  peace  follow  ? 

Go  to ! go  to  ! As  I love  goodness,  so  I hate 
This  paltry  work  of  yours  : and  here  I vow  to  God, 

For  him,  this  rebel,  traitor  Wallenstein, 

To  shed  my  blood,  my  heart’s  blood,  drop  by  drop, 

Ere  I will  see  you  triumph  in  his  fall ! 

The  Princess  Thekla  is  perhaps  still  dearer  to  us.  Thekla, 
just  entering  on  life,  with  ‘ timid  steps,’  with  the  brilliant  vis- 
ions of  a cloister  yet  undisturbed  by  the  contradictions  of 
reality,  beholds  in  Max,  not  merely  her  protector  and  escort 
to  her  father’s  camp,  but  the  living  emblem  of  her  shapeless 
yet  glowing  dreams.  She  knows  not  deception,  she  trusts  and 
is  trusted  : their  spirits  meet  and  mingle,  and  ‘ clasp  each 
other  firmly  and  forever.’  All  this  is  described  by  the  poet 
with  a quiet  inspiration  which  finds  its  way  into  our  deepest 
sympathies.  Such  beautiful  simplicity  is  irresistible.  ‘ How 
long,’  the  Countess  Terzky  asks, 

How  loug  is  it  since  you  disclosed  your  heart  ? 


142 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Max.  This  morning  first  I risked  a word  of  it. 

COUN.  Not  till  this  morning  during  twenty  days  ? 

Max.  ’Twas  at  the  castle  where  you  met  us,  ’twixt  this 
And  Nepomuk,  the  last  stage  of  the  journey. 

On  a balcony  she  and  I were  standing,  our  looks 
In  silence  turn  d upon  the  vacant  landscape  ; 

And  before  us  the  dragoons  were  riding, 

Whom  the  Duke  had  sent  to  be  her  escort. 

Heavy  on  my  heart  lay  thoughts  of  parting, 

And  with  a faltering  voice  at  last  I said  : 

All  this  reminds  me,  Fraulein,  that  today 
I must  be  parted  from  my  happiness  ; 

In  few  hours  you  will  find  a father, 

Will  see  yourself  encircled  by  new  friends  ; 

And  I shall  be  to  you  naught  but  a stranger, 

Forgotten  in  the  crowd — “ Speak  with  AuntTerzky  ! ” 

Quick  she  interrupted  me  ; I noticed 

A quiv'ring  in  her  voice  ; a glowing  blush 

Spread  o’er  her  cheeks  ; slow  rising  from  the  ground, 

Her  eyes  met  mine  : I could  control  myself 
No  longer — 

[The  Princess  appears  at  the  door , and  stops  ; the  Countess, 
but  not  Piccolomini,  observing  her. 

I clasp’d  her  wildly  in  my  arms, 

My  lips  were  join'd  with  hers.  Some  footsteps  stirring 
I’  th’  next  room  parted  us ; ’twas  you  ; what  then 
Took  place,  you  know. 

Coun.  And  can  you  be  so  modest. 

Or  incurious,  as  not  once  to  ask  me 
For  my  secret,  in  return  ? 

Max.  Your  secret  ? 

Coun.  Yes,  sure  ! On  coming  in  the  moment  after, 

How  my  niece  receiv’d  me,  what  i’  th'  instant 
Of  her  first  surprise  she — 

Max.  Ha  ? 

Theki.a  [enters  hastily] . Spare  yourself 

The  trouble,  Aunt ! That  he  can  learn  from  me. 

***** 


We  rejoice  in  the  ardent,  pure  and  confiding  affection  of 
these  two  angelic  beings  : but  oui-  feeling  is  changed  and 
made  more  poignant,  when  we  think  that  the  inexorable  hand 
of  Destiny  is  already  lifted  to  smite  their  world  with  black- 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


143 


ness  and  desolation.  Thekla  lias  enjoyed  ‘ two  little  hours  of 
heavenly  beauty  ; ’ but  her  native  gaiety  gives  place  to  serious 
anticipations  and  alarms  ; she  feels  that  the  camp  of  Wallen- 
stein is  not  a place  for  hope  to  dwell  in.  The  instructions 
and  explanations  of  her  aunt  disclose  the  secret : she  is  not 
to  love  Max  ; a higher,  it  may  be  a royal,  fate  awaits  her  ; but 
she  is  to  tempt  him  from  his  duty,  and  make  him  lend  his  in- 
fluence to  her  father,  whose  daring  projects  she  now  for  the 
first  time  discovers.  From  that  moment  her  hopes  of  happi- 
ness have  vanished,  never  more  to  return.  Yet  her  own  sor- 
rows touch  her  less  than  the  ruin  wThich  she  sees  about  to 
overwhelm  her  tender  and  affectionate  mother.  For  herself, 
she  waits  with  gloomy  patience  the  stroke  that  is  to  crush  her. 
She  is  meek,  and  soft,  and  maiden-like  ; but  she  is  Fried- 
land’s  daughter,  and  does  not  shrink  from  what  is  unavoid- 
able. There  is  often  a rectitude,  and  quick  inflexibility  of 
resolution  about  Thekla,  which  contrasts  beautifully  with  her 
inexperience  and  timorous  acuteness  of  feeling  : on  discover- 
ing her  father’s  treason,  she  herself  decides  that  Max  ‘ shall 
obey  his  first  impulse,’  and  forsake  her. 

There  are  few  scenes  in  poetry  more  sublimely  pathetic 
than  this.  We  behold  the  sinking  but  still  fiery  glory  of  Wal- 
lenstein, opposed  to  the  impetuous  despair  of  Max  Piccolo- 
mini,  torn  asunder  by  the  claims  of  duty  and  of  love  ; the 
calm  but  broken-hearted  Thekla,  beside  her  broken-hearted 
mother,  and  surrounded  by  the  blank  faces  of  Wallenstein’s 
desponding  followers.  There  is  a physical  pomp  correspond- 
ing to  the  moral  grandeur  of  the  action  ; the  successive  re- 
volt and  departure  of  the  troops  is  heard  without  the  walls  of 
the  Palace  ; the  trumpets  of  the  Pappenheimers  reecho  the 
wild  feelings  of  their  leader.  What  follows  too  is  equally  af- 
fecting. Max  being  forced  away  by  his  soldiers  from  the  side 
of  Thekla,  rides  forth  at  their  head  in  a state  bordering  on 
frenzy.  Next  day  come  tidings  of  his  fate,  which  no  heart  is 
hard  enough  to  hear  unmoved.  The  effect  it  produces  upon 
Thekla  displays  all  the  hidden  energies  of  her  soul.  The 
first  accidental  hearing  of  the  news  had  almost  overwhelmed 
her ; but  she  summons  up  her  strength  : she  sends  for  the 


141 


THE  LIVE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


messenger,  that  she  may  question  him  more  closely,  and  listen 
to  his  stern  details  with  the  heroism  of  a Spartan  virgin. 


Act  IV.  Scene  X. 

Thekla  ; the  Swedish  Captain  ; Fkaulein  Neubkunn. 

Capt.  [ approaches  respectfully']. 

Princess — I — must  pray  you  to  forgive  me 
My  most  rasli  unthinking  words  : I could  not — 

Thekla  [ with  nolle  dignity]. 

You  saw  me  in  my  grief  ; a sad  chance  made  you 
At  once  my  confidant,  who  were  a stranger. 

Capt.  I fear  the  sight  of  me  is  hateful  to  you : 

They  were  mournful  tidings  I brought  hither. 

Thekla.  The  blame  was  mine  ! ’Twas  I that  forced  them  from  you  ; 
Your  voice  was  but  the  voice  of  Destiny. 

My  terror  interrupted  your  recital : 

Finish  it,  I pray  you. 

Capt.  ’Twill  renew  your  grief ! 

Tiiekla.  I am  prepared  for’t,  I will  be  prepared. 

Proceed  ! How  went  the  action  ? Let  me  hear. 

Capt.  At  Neustadt,  dreading  no  surprise,  we  lay 
Slightly  entrench’d  ; when  towards  night  a cloud 
Of  dust  rose  from  the  forest,  and  our  outposts 
Rush’d  into  the  camp,  and  cried  : The  foe  was  there ! 

Scarce  had  we  time  to  spring  on  horseback,  when 
The  Pappenheimers,  coming  at  full  gallop, 

Dash’d  o’er  the  palisado,  and  next  moment 
These  fierce  troopers  pass’d  our  camp-trench  also. 

But  thoughtlessly  their  courage  had  impelled  them 
To  advance  without  support ; their  infantry 
Was  far  behind  ; only  the  Pappenheimers 
Boldly  following  their  bold  leader — 

[Thekla  makes  a movement.  The  Captain  pauses  for  a moment, 
till  she  beckons  lum  to  proceed. 

On  front  and  flank  with  all  our  horse  we  charged  them  ; 

And  ere  long  forc’d  them  back  upon  the  trench, 

Where  rank’d  in  haste  our  infantry  presented 
An  iron  hedge  of  spikes  to  stop  their  passage. 

Advance  they  could  not,  nor  retreat  a step, 

Wedg’d  in  this  narrow  prison,  death  on  all  sides. 

Then  'the  Rheingraf  call’d  upon  their  leader, 

In  fair  battle,  fairly  to  surrender : 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


145 


But  Colonel  Piccolomini—  [I’helda,  tottering , catches  hy  a seat. 

— We  knew  liim 

By’s  helmet-plume  and  his  long  flowing  hair, 

The  rapid  ride  had  loosen’d  it : to  the  trench 
He  points  ; leaps  first  himself  his  gallant  steed 
Clean  over  it  ; the  troop  plunge  after  him  : 

But — in  a twinkle  it  was  done  ! — his  horse 
Run  through  the  body  by  a partisan, 

Rears  in  its  agony,  and  pitches  far 

Its  rider  ; and  fierce  o’er  him  tramp  the  steeds 

O’  th’  rest,  now  heeding  neither  bit  nor  bridle. 

[ Thekla , who  has  listened  to  the  last  words  with  increasing  an- 
guish, falls  into  a violent  tremor  ; she  is  sinking  to  the 
ground  ; Fraulein  Neubrunn  hastens  to  her , and  receives 
her  in  her.  arms. 

Neu.  Lady,  dearest  mistress— 

Capt.  [moved].  Let  me  begone. 

Thekla.  ’Tis  past ; conclude  it. 

Capt.  Seeing  their  leader  fall, 

A grim  inexorable  desperation 

Seiz’d  the  troops  : their  own  escape  forgotten, 

Like  wild  tigers  they  attack  us  ; their  fury 
Provokes  our  soldiers,  and  the  battle  ends  not 
Till  the  last  man  of  the  Pappenlieimers  falls. 

Thekla  [with  a quivering  voice]. 

And  where — where  is—  you  have  not  told  me  all. 

Capt.  [after  a qiav.se]. 

This  morning  we'interr’d  him  He  was  borne 
By  twelve  youths  of  the  noblest  families, 

And  all  our  host  accompanied  the  bier. 

A laurel  deck’d  his  coffin  ; and  upon  it 
The  Rheingraf  laid  his  own  victorious  sword. 

Nor  were  tears  wanting  to  his  fate  : for  many 
Of  us  had  known  his  noble-mindedness, 

And  gentleness  of  manners  ; and  all  hearts 

Were  mov’d  at  his  sad  end.  Fain  would  the  Rheingraf 

Have  saved  him  ; but  himself  prevented  it ; 

’Tis  said  he  wish’d  to  die. 

Neu.  [with  emotion,  to  Thekla,  who  hides  her  face]. 

O ! dearest  mistress, 

Look  up  I # O,  why  would  you  insist  on  this  ? 

Thekla.  Where  is  his  grave  ? 

Capt.  I’  th’  chapel  of  a cloister 

At  Neustadt  is  he  laid,  till  we  receive 
Directions  from  his  father. 

10 


146 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Thekla.  What  is  its  name  ? 

Capt.  St.  Catharine’s. 

Thekla.  Is’t  far  from  this  ? 

Capt.  Seven  leagues. 

Thekla.  How  goes  the  way  ? 

Capt.  You  come  hy  Tirschenreit 

And  Falkenberg,  and  through  our  farthest  outposts. 

Thekla.  Who  commands  them  ? 

Capt.  Colonel  Seckendorf. 

Thekla  [steps  to  a table  and  takes  a ring  from  her  jewel-box]. 

You  have  seen  me  in  my  grief,  and  shown  me 
A sympathising  heart:  accept  a small 

Memorial  of  this  hour  [ giving  him  the  ring].  How  leave  me. 

Capt.  [overpowered].  Princess ! 

[ Thekla  silently  makes  him  a sign  to  go,  and  turns  from  him.  He 
lingers,  and  attempts  to  speak  ; Ffeubrunn  repeats  the  sign  ; he 
goes. 


Scene  XI. 

Neubrunn  ; Thekla. 

Thekla  [falls  on  Heubrunn’s  neck], 

Now,  good  Neubrunn,  is  the  time  to  show  the  love 
Which  thou  hast  always  vow’d  me.  Prove  thyself 
A true  friend  and  attendant ! We  mxrst  go, 

This  very  night. 

Neu.  Go  ! This  very  night ! And  whither  ? 

Thekla.  Whither  ? There  is  but  oue  place  in  the  world, 

The  place  where  he  lies  buried  : to  his  grave. 

Netj.  Alas,  what  would  you  there,  my  dearest  mistress  ? 

Thekla.  What  there  ? Unhappy  girl ! Thou  wouldst  not  ask 
If  thou  hadst  ever  lov’d.  There,  there,  is  all 
That  yet  remains  of  him  ; that  one  small  spot 
Is  all  the  earth  to  me.  Do  not  detain  me ! 

O,  come  ! Prepare,  think  how  we  may  escape. 

Neu.  Have  you  reflected  on  your  father's  anger  ? 

Thekla.  I dread  no  mortal’s  anger  now. 

Neu.  The  mockery 

Of  the  world,  the  wicked  tongue  of  slander ! 

Thekla.  I go  to  seek  one  that  is  cold  and  low : 

Am  I,  then,  hastening  to  my  lover’s  arms  ? % 

O God ! I am  but  hastening  to  his  grave  ! 

Neu.  And  we  alone  ? Two  feeble,'  helpless  women  ? 

Thekla.  We  will  arm  ourselves  ; my  hand  shall  guard  thee. 

Neu.  In  the  gloomy  night-time  ? 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


Thekla.  Night  will  hide  us. 

Neu.  In  this  rude  storm  ? 

Tiiekla.  Was  Ms  bed  made  of  down, 

When  the  horses’  hoofs  went  o’er  him  ? 

Neu.  O Heaven ! • 

And  then  the  many  Swedish  posts  ! They  will  not 
Let  us  pass. 

Thekla.  Are  they  not  men  ? Misfortune 
Passes  free  through  all  the  earth. 

Neu.  So  far  ! So — 

Thekla.  Does  the  pilgrim  count  the  miles,  when  journeying 
To  the  distant  shrine  of  grace  ? 

Neu.  How  shall  we 

Even  get  out  of  Eger  ? 

Thekla.  Gold  opens  gates. 

Go  ! Do  go  ! 

Neu.  If  they  should  recognise  us  ? 

Thekla.  In  a fugitive  despairing  woman 
No  one  will  look  to  meet  with  Friedland's  daughter. 

Neu.  And  where  shall  we  get  horses  for  our  flight  ? 

Thekla.  My  Equerry  will  find  them.  Go  and  call  him. 

Neu.  Will  he  venture  without  his  master’s  knowledge  ? 
Thekla.  He  will,  I tell  thee.  Go  ! O,  linger  not ! 

Neu.  Ah  ! And  what  will  your  mother  do  when  you 
Are  vanish’d  ? 

Thekla  [ recollecting  this,  and  gazing  with  a look  of  anguisli\. 

O my  mother  ! 

Neu.  Your  good  mother ! 

She  has  already  had  so  much  to  suffer. 

Must  this  last  heaviest  stroke  too  fall  on  her  ? 

Thekla.  I cannot  help  it.  Go,  I prithee,  go  ! 

Neu.  Think  well  what  you  are  doing. 

Thekla.  All  is  thought 

That  can  be  thought,  already. 

Neu.  Were  we  there, 

What  would  you  do  ? 

Thekla.  God  will  direct  me,  there. 

Neu.  Your  heart  is  full  of  trouble  : O my  lady ! 

This  way  leads  not  to  peace. 

Thekla.  To  that  deep  peace 

Which  he  has  found.  O,  hasten  ! Go!  No  words! 

There  is  some  force,  I know  not  what  to  call  it, 

Pulls  me  irresistibly,  and  drags  me 

On  to  his  grave  : there  I shall  find  some  solace 

Instantly  ; the  strangling  band  of  sorrow 


14S 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Will  be  loosen’d  ; tears  will  flow.  O,  hasten  ! 

Long  time  ago  we  might  have  been  o’  th’  road. 

No  rest  for  me  till  I have  fled  these  walls  : 

They  fall  upon  me,  some  dark  power  repels  me 
• From  them — Ha ! What's  this  ? The  chamber’s  filling 
With  pale  gaunt  shapes  ! No  room  is  left  for  me  ! 

More  ! more  ! The  crowding  spectres  press  on  me, 

And  push  me  forth  from  this  accursed  house. 

Next.  You  frighten  me,  my  lady  : I dare  stay 
No  longer  ; quickly  I’ll  call  Rosenberg. 

Scehte  XII. 

Thekla. 

It  is  his  spirit  calls  me  ! ’Tis  the  host 
Of  faithful  souls  that  sacrificed  themselves 
In  fiery  vengeance  for  him.  They  upbraid  me 
For  this  ioit’ring  : they  in  death  forsook  him  not, 

Who  in  their  life  had  led  them  ; their  rude  hearts 
Were  capable  of  this  : and  I can  live  ? 

No  ! No  ! That  laurel-garland  which  they  laid 
Upon  his  bier  was  twined  for  both  of  us  ! 

What  is  this  life  without  the  light  of  love  ? 

I cast  it  from  me,  since  its  worth  is  gone. 

Yes,  when  we  found  and  lov’d  each  other,  life 
Was  something  ! Glittering  lay  before  me 
The  golden  morn  ; I had  two  hours  of  Heaven. 

Thou  stoodest  at  the  threshold  of  the  scene 
Of  busy  life  ; with  timid  steps  I cross’d  it : 

How  fair  it  lay  in  solemn  shade  and  sheen  ! 

And  thou  beside  me,  like  some  angel,  posted 
To  lead  me  out  of  childhood’s  fairy  land 
On  to  life’s  glancing  summit,  hand  in  hand  ! 

My  first  thought  was  of  joy  no  tongue  can  tell, 

My  first  look  on  thy  spotless  spirit  fell. 

[She  sinks  into  a reverie,  then  with  signs  of  horror  proceeds. 

And  Fate  put  forth  his  hand  : inexorable,  cold, 

My  friend  it  grasp’d  and  clutch’d  with  iron  hold, 

And — under  th’  hoofs  of  their  wild  horses  hurl’d  : 

Such  is  the  lot  of  loveliness  i’  th’  world  ! 


Tlielda  lias  yet  another  pang  to  encounter ; the  parting  with 
her  mother  : but  she  persists  in  her  determination,  and  goes 
forth  to  die  beside  her  lover’s  grave.  The  heart-rending 


SCHILLER  AT  JENA. 


149 


emotions,  which  this  amiable  creature  has  to  undergo,  are 
described  with  an  almost  painful  effect : the  fate  of  Max  and 
Thekla  might  draw  tears  from  the  eyes  of  a stoic. 

Less  tender,  but  not  less  sublimely  poetical,  is  the  fate  of 
Wallenstein  himself.  We  do  not  pity  Wallenstein  ; even  in 
ruin  he  seems  too  great  for  pity.  His  daughter  having  van- 
ished like  a fair  vision  from  the  scene,  we  look  forward  to 
Wallenstein’s  inevitable  fate  with  little  feeling  save  expectant 
awe : 

This  kingly  Wallenstein,  whene'er  he  falls, 

Will  drag  a world  to  ruin  down  with  him  ; 

And  as  a ship  that  in  the  midst  of  ocean 
Catches  fire,  and  shiv ’ring  springs  into  the  air, 

And  in  a moment  scatters  between  sea  and  sky 
The  crew  it  bore,  so  will  he  hurry  to  destruction 
• Ev’ry  one  whose  fate  was  join’d  with  his. 

Yet  still  there  is  some  touch  of  pathos  in  his  gloomy  fall ; 
some  visitings  of  nature  in  the  austere  grandeur  of  his  slowly- 
coming,  but  inevitable  and  annihilating  doom.  The  last  scene 
of  his  life  is  among  the  finest  which  poetry  can  boast  of. 
Thekla’s  death  is  still  unknown  to  him  ; but  he  thinks  of  Max, 
and  almost  weeps.  He  looks  at  the  stars  : dim  shadows  of 
superstitious  dread  pass  fitfully  across  his  spirit,  as  he  views 
these  fountains  of  light,  and  compares  their  glorious  and  en- 
during existence  with  the  fleeting  troubled  life  of  man.  The 
strong  spirit  of  his  sister  is  subdued  by  dark  forebodings  ; 
omens  are  against  him  ; his  astrologer  entreats,  one  of  the 
relenting  conspirators  entreats,  his  own  feelings  call  upon  him, 
to  -watch  and  beware.  But  he  refuses  to  let  the  resolution  of 
his  mind  be  over-mastered  ; he  casts  away  these  warnings, 
and  goes  cheerfully  to  sleep,  with  dreams  of  hope  about  his 
pillow,  unconscious  that  the  javelins  are  already  grasped  which 
will  send  him  to  his  long  and  dreamless  sleep.  The  death  of 
Wallenstein  does  not  cause  tears  ; but  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
high-wrought  scene  of  the  play.  A shade  of  horror,  of  fateful 
dreariness,  hangs  over  it,  and  gives  additional  effect  to  the 
fire  of  that  brilliant  poetry,  which  glows  in  every  line  of  it. 
Except  in  Macbeth  or  the  conclusion  of  Othello , we  know  not 


150 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


where  to  match  it.  Schiller’s  genius  is  of  a kind  much  nar- 
rower than  Shakspeare’s  ; hut  in  his  own  peculiar  province, 
the  exciting  of  lofty,  earnest,  strong  emotion,  he  admits  of  no 
superior.  Others  are  finer,  more  piercing,  varied,  thrilling, 
in  their  influence  : Schiller,  in  his  finest  mood,  is  overwhelm- 
ing. • 

This  tragedy  of  Wallenstein,  published  at  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  may  safely  be  rated  as  the  greatest  dra- 
matic work  of  which  that  century  can  boast.  France  never 
rose  into  the  sphere  of  Schiller,  even  in  the  days  of  her  Cor- 
neille : nor  can  our  own  country,  since  the  times  of  Elizabeth, 
name  * any  dramatist  to  be  compared  with  him  in  general 
strength  of  mind,  and  feeling,  and  acquired  accomplishment. 
About  the  time  of  Wallenstein’ s appearance,  we  of  this  gifted 
land  were  shuddering  at  The  Castle  Spectre!  Germany,  indeed, 
boasts  of  Goethe  : and  on  some  rare  occasions,  it  must  be 
owned  that  Goethe  has  shown  talents  of  a higher  order  than 
are  here  manifested  ; but  he  has  made  no  equally  regular  or 
powerful  exertion  of  them  : Faust  is  but  a careless  effusion 
compared  'with  Wallenstein.  The  latter  is  in  truth  a vast  and 
magnificent  work.  What  an  assemblage  of  images,  ideas, 
emotions,  disposed  in  the  most  felicitous  and  impressive  order  ! 
We  have  conquerors,  statesmen,  ambitious  generals,  maraud- 
ing soldiers,  heroes,  and  heroines,  all  acting  and  feeling  as 
they  would  in  nature,  all  faithfully  depicted,  yet  all  embel- 
lished by  the  spirit  of  poetry,  and  all  made  conducive  to 
heighten  one  paramount  impression,  our  sympathy  with  the 
tlmee  chief  characters  of  the  piece.1 

1 Wallenstein  lias  been  translated  into  French  by  M.  Benjamin  Con- 
stant ; and  the  last  two  parts  of  it  have  beep  faithfully  rendered  into 
English  by  Mr.  Coleridge.  As  to  the  French  version,  we  know  nothing, 
save  that  it  is  an  improved  one  ; but  that  little  is  enough : Schiller,  as  a 
dramatist,  improved  by  M.  Constant,  is  a spectacle  we  feel  no  wish  to 
witness.  Mr.  Coleridge’s  translation  is  also,  as  a whole,  unknown  to  us  : 
but  judging  from  many  large  specimens,  we  should  pronounce  it.  ex- 
cepting Sotheby’s  Oberon , to  be  the  best,  indeed  the  only  sufferable, 
translation  from  the  German  with  which  our  literature  has  yet  been  en- 
riched. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


151 


Soon  after  the  publication  of  Wallenstein,  Scliiller  once 
more  changed  his  abode.  The  ‘ mountain  air  of  Jena  ’ was 
conceived  by  his  physicians  to  be  prejudicial  in  disorders  of 
the  lungs  ; and  partly  in  consequence  of  this  opinion,  he  de- 
termined henceforth  to  spend  his  winters  in  Weimar.  Per- 
haps a weightier  reason  in  favour  of  this  new  arrangement  was 
the  opportunity  it  gave  him  of  being  near  the  theatre,  a con- 
stant attendance  on  which,  now  that  he  had  once  more  be- 
come a dramatist,  seemed  highly  useful  for  his  farther  im- 
provement. The  summer  he,  for  several  years,  continued  still 
to  spend  in  Jena  ; to  which,  especially  its  beautiful  environs, 
he  declared  himself  particularly  attached.  His  little  garden- 
house  was  still  his  place  of  study  during  summer  ; till  at  last 
he  settled  constantly  at  Weimar.  Even  then  he  used  fre- 
quently to  visit  Jena  ; to  which  there  was  a fresh  attraction 
in  later  years,  when  Goethe  chose  it  for  his  residence,  which, 
we  understand,  it  still  occasionally  is.  With  Goethe  he  often 
stayed  for  months. 

This  change  of  place  produced  little  change  in  Schiller’s 
habits  or  employment : he  was  now  as  formerly  in  the  pay  of 
the  Duke  of  Weimar  ; now  as  formerly  engaged  in  dramatic 
composition  as  the  great  object  of  his  life.  What  the  amount 
of  his  pension  was,  we  know  not : that  the  Prince  behaved  to 
him  in  a princely  manner,  we  have  proof  sufficient.  Four 
years  before,  when  invited  to  the  University  of  Tubingen,  Schil- 
ler had  received  a promise,  that,  in  case  of  sickness  or  any 
other  cause  preventing  the  continuance  of  his  literary  labour, 
his  salary  should  be  doubled.  It  was  actually  increased  on 
occasion  of  the  present  removal  ; and  again  still  farther  in  1804, 
some  advantageous  offers  being  made  to  him  from  Berlin. 
Schiller  seems  to  have  been,  what  he  might  have  wished  to  be, 
neither  poor  nor  rich  : his  simple  unostentatious  economy 
went  on  without  embarrassment : and  this  was  all  that  he  re- 
quired. To  avoid  pecuniary  perplexities  was  constantly  among 
his  aims  : to  amass  wealth,  never.  We  ought  also  to  add  that, 
in  1802,  by  the  voluntary  solicitation  of  the  Duke,  he  was  en- 
nobled ; a fact  which  we  mention,  for  his  sake  by  whose  kind- 
ness this  honour  was  procured  ; not  for  the  sake  of  Schiller, 


152 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


who  accepted  it  with  gratitude,  but  had  neither  needed  nor 
desired  it. 

The  official  services  expected  of  him  in  return  for  so  much 
kindness  seem  to  have  been  slight,  if  any.  Chiefly  or  alto- 
gether of  his  own  accord,  he  appears  to  have  applied  himself 
to  a close  inspection  of  the  theatre,  and  to  have  shared  with 
Goethe  the  task  of  superintending  its  concerns.  The  re- 
hearsals of  new  pieces  commonly  took  place  at  the  house  of  one 
of  these  friends  ; they  consulted  together  on  all  such  subjects, 
frankly  and  copiously.*  Schiller  was  not  slow  to  profit  by  the 
means  of  improvement  thus  afforded  him  ; in  the  mechanical 
details  of  his  art  he  grew  more  skilful : by  a constant  observa- 
tion of  the  stage,  he  became  more  acquainted  with  its  capa- 
bilities and  its  laws.  It  was  not  long  till,  with  his  character- 
istic expansiveness  of  enterprise,  he  set  about  turning  this  new 
knowledge  to  account.  In  conjunction  with  Goethe,  he  re- 
modelled his  own  Don  Carlos  and  his  friend’s  Count  Egmont, 
altering  both  according  to  his  latest  views  of  scenic  propriety. 
It  was  farther  intended  to  treat,  in  the  same  manner,  the  whole 
series  of  leading  German  plays,  and  thus  to  produce  a national 
stock  of  dramatic  pieces,  formed  according  to  the  best  rules  ; 
a vast  project,  in  which  some  progress  continued  to  be  made, 
though  other  labours  often  interrupted  it.  For  the  present, 
Schiller  was  engaged  with  his  Maria  Stuart : it  appeared  in 
1800. 

This  tragedy  will  not  detain  us  long.  It  is  upon  a subject, 
the  incidents  of  which  are  now  getting  trite,  and  the  moral  of 
which  has  little  that  can  peculiarly  recommend  it.  To  exhibit 
the  repentance  of  a lovely  but  erring  woman,  to  show  us  how 
her  soul  may  be  restored  to  its  primitive  nobleness,  by  suffer- 
ings, devotion  and  death,  is  the  object  of  Maria  Stuart.  It  is 
a tragedy  of  sombre  and  mournful  feelings  ; with  an  air  of 
melancholy  and  obstruction  pervading  it ; a looking  backward 
on  objects  of  remorse,  around  on  imprisonment,  and  forward 
on  the  grave.  Its  object  is  undoubtedly  attained.  We  are 
forced  to  pardon  and  to  love  the  heroine  ; she  is  beautiful,  and 
miserable,  and  lofty-minded  ; and  her  crimes,  however  dark, 
have  been  expiated  by  long  years  of  weeping  and  woe.  Con- 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


153 


sidering  also  that  they  were  the  fruit  not  of  calculation,  but 
of  passion  acting  on  a heart  not  dead,  though  blinded  for  a 
time,  to  their  enormity,  they  seem  less  hateful  than  the  cold 
premeditated  villany  of  which  she  is  the  victim.  Elizabeth  is 
selfish,  heartless,  envious  ; she  violates  no  law,  but  she  has  no 
virtue,  and  she  lives  triumphant : her  arid,  artificial  character 
serves  by  contrast  to  heighten  our  sympathy  with  her  warm- 
hearted, forlorn,  ill-fated  rival.  These  two  Queens,  particu- 
larly Mary,  are  well  delineated  : their  respective  qualities  are 
vividly  brought  out,  and  the  feelings  they  were  meant  to  ex- 
cite arise  within  us.  There  is  also  Mortimer,  a fierce,  impetu- 
ous, impassioned  lover  ; driven  onward  chiefly  by  the  heat  of 
his  blood,  but  still  interesting  by  his  vehemence  and  un- 
bounded daring.  The  dialogue,  moreover,  has  many  beauties  ; 
there  are  scenes  which  have  merited  peculiar  commendation. 
Of  this  kind  is  the  interview  between  the  Queens ; and  more 
especially  the  first  entrance  of  Mary,  when,  after  long  seclu- 
sion, she  is  once  more  permitted  to  behold  the  cheerful  sky. 
In  the  joy  of  a momentary  freedom,  she  forgets  that  she  is  still 
a captive  ; she  addresses  the  clouds,  the  ‘ sailors  of  the  air,’ 
who  c are  not  subjects  of  Elizabeth,’  and  bids  them  carry  tid- 
ings of  her  to  the  hearts  that  love  her  in  other  lands.  With- 
out doubt,  in  all  that  he  intended,  Schiller  has  succeeded ; 
Maria  Stuart  is  a beautiful  tragedy  ; it  would  have  formed  the 
glory  of  a meaner  man,  but  it  cannot  materially  alter  his. 
Compared  with  Wallenstein,  its  purpose  is  narrow,  and  its  re- 
sult is  common.  We  have  no  manners  or  true  historical  delin- 
eation. The  figure  of  the  English  court  is  not  given  ; and 
Elizabeth  is  depicted  more  like  one  of  the  French  Medici,  than 
like  our  own  politic,  capricious,  coquettish,  imperious,  yet  on 
the  whole  true-hearted,  ‘good  Queen  Bess.’  W'ith  abundant 
proofs  of  genius,  this  tragedy  produces  a comparatively  small 
effect,  especially  on  English  readers.  We  have  already  wTept 
enough  for  Mary  Stuart,  both  over  prose  and  verse  ; and  the 
persons  likely  to  be  deeply  touched  with  the  moral  or  the  in- 
terest of  her  story,  as  it  is  recorded  here,  are  rather  a separate 
class  than  men  in  general.  Madame  de  Stael,  we  observe,  is 
her  principal  admirer. 


154 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Next  year,  Schiller  took  possession  of  a province  more  pecul- 
iarly his  own  : in  1801,  appeared  his  Maid  of  Orleans  ( Jung- 
frau von  Orleans)  ; the  first  hint  of  which  was  suggested  to  him 
by  a series  of  documents,  relating  to  the  sentence  of  Jeanne 
d’Arc,  and  its  reversal,  first  published  about  this  time  by  De 
l’Averdy  of  the  Academie  des  Inscriptions.  Schiller  had  been 
moved  in  perusing  them  : this  tragedy  gave  voice  to  his 
feelings. 

Considered  as  an  object  of  poetry  or  history,  Jeanne  d’Arc, 
the  most  singular  personage  of  modern  times,  presents  a char- 
acter capable  of  being  viewed  under  a great  variety  of  aspects, 
and  with  a corresponding  variety  of  emotions.  To  the  Eng- 
lish of  her  own  age,  bigoted  imtheir  creed,  and  baffled  by  her 
prowess,  she  appeared  inspired  by  the  Devil,  and  was  natu- 
rally burnt  as  a sorceress.  In  this  light,  too,  she  is  painted  in 
the  poems  of  Shakspeare.  To  Voltaire,  again,  whose  trade  it 
was  to  war  with  every  kind  of  superstition,  this  child  of  fa- 
natic ardour  seemed  no  better  than  a moonstruck  zealot ; and 
the  people  who  followed  her,  and  believed  in  her,  something 
worse  than  lunatics.  The  glory  of  what  she  had  achieved  was 
forgotten,  when  the  means  of  achieving  it  were  recollected  ; 
and  the  Maid  of  Orleans  was  deemed  the  fit  subject  of  a 
poem,  the  wittiest  and  most  profligate  for  which  literature  has 
to  blush.  Our  illustrious  Don  Juan  hides  his  head  when  con- 
trasted with  Voltaire’s  Pucelle : Juan’s  biographer,  with  all  his 
zeal,  is  but  an  innocent,  and  a novice,  by  the  side  of  this  arch- 
scorner. 

Such  a manner  of  considering  the  Maid  of  Orleans  is  evi- 
dently not  the  right  one.  Feelings  so  deep  and  earnest  as  hers 
can  never  be  an  object  of  ridicule  : whoever  pursues  a purpose 
of  any  sort  with  such  fervid  devotedness,  is  entitled  to  awaken 
emotions,  at  least  of  a serious  kind,  in  the  hearts  of  others. 
Enthusiasm  puts  on  a different  shape  in  every  different  age : 
always  in  some  degree  sublime,  often  it  is  dangerous ; its  very 
essence  is  a tendency  to  error  and  exaggeration ; yet  it  is  the 
fundamental  quality  of  strong  souls  ; the  tine  nobility  of 
blood,  in  which  all  greatness  of  thought  or  action  has  its  rise. 
Quicquid  vult  valdi  vult  is  ever  the  first  and  surest  test  of 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


155 


mental  capability.  This  pleasant  girl,  who  felt  within  her 
such  fiery  vehemence  of  resolution,  that  she  could  subdue  the 
minds  of  kings  and  captains  to  her  will,  and  lead  armies  on 
to  battle,  conquering,  till  her  country  was  cleared  of  its  in- 
vaders, must  evidently  have  possessed  the  elements  of  a ma- 
jestic character.  Benevolent  feelings,  sublime  ideas,  and 
above  all  an  overpowering  will,  are  here  indubitably  marked. 
Nor  does  the  form,  which  her  activity  assumed,  seem  less 
adapted  for  displaying  these  qualities,  than  many  other  forms 
in  which  we  praise  them.  The  goi’geous  inspirations  of  the 
Catholic  religion  are  as  real  as  the  phantom  of  posthumous 
renown  ; the  love  of  our  native  soil  is  as  laudable  as  ambition, 
or  the  principle  of  military  honour.  Jeanne  d’Arc  must  have 
been  a creature  of  shadowy  yet  far-glancing  dreams,  of  unut- 
terable feelings,  of  ‘ thoughts  that  wandered  through  Eternity.’ 
AVI io  can  tell  the  trials  and  the  triumphs,  the  splendours  and 
the  terrors,  of  which  her  simple  spirit  was  the  scene ! ‘ Heart- 
less, sneering,  God-forgetting  French ! ’ as  old  Suwarrow  called 
them, — they  are  not  worthy  of  this  noble  maiden.  Hers  were 
errors,  but  errors  which  a generous  soul  alone  could  have 
committed,  and  which  generous  souls  would  have  done  more 
than  pardon.  Her  darkness  and  delusions  were  of  the  under- 
standing only ; they  but  make  the  radiance  of  her  heart  more 
touching  and  apparent ; as  clouds  are  gilded  by  the  orient 
light  into  something  more  beautiful  than  azure  itself. 

It  is  under  this  aspect  that  Schiller  has  contemplated  the 
Maid  of  Orleans,  and  endeavoured  to  make  fis  contemplate 
her.  For  the  latter  purpose,  it  appears  that  more  than  one 
plan  had  occurred  to  him.  His  first  idea  was,  to  represent 
Joanna,  and  the  times  she  lived  in,  as  they  actually  were  : to 
exhibit  the  superstition,  ferocity,  and  wretchedness  of  the 
period,  in  all  their  aggravation  ; and  to  show  us  this  patriotic, 
and  religious  enthusiast  beautifying  the  tempestuous  scene 
by  her  presence  ; swaying  the  fierce  passions  of  her  country- 
men ; directing  their  fury  against  the  invaders  of  France  ; till 
at  length,  forsaken  and  condemned  to  die,  she  perished  at  the 
stake,  retaining  the  same  steadfast  and  lofty  faith,  which  had 
ennobled  and  redeemed  the  errors  of  her  life,  and  was  now  to 


156 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


glorify  the  ignominy  of  her  death.  This  project,  after  much 
deliberation,  he  relinquished,  as  too  difficult.  By  a new  mode 
of  management,  much  of  the  homeliness  and  rude  horror,  that 
defaced  and  encumbered  the  reality,  is  thrown  away.  The 
Dauphin  is  not  here  a voluptuous  weakling,  nor  is  his  court 
the  centre  of  vice  and  cruelty  and  imbecility  : the  misery  of 
the  time  is  touched  but  lightly,  and  the  Maid  of  Arc  herself  is 
invested  with  a certain  faint  degree  of  mysterious  dignity, 
ultimately  represented  as  being  in  truth  a preternatural  gift  ; 
though  whether  preternatural,  and  if  so,  whether  sent  from 
above  or  from  below,  neither  we  nor  she,  except  by  faith,  are 
absolutely  sure,  till  the  conclusion. 

The  propriety  of  this  arrangement  is  liable  to  question  ; in- 
deed, it  has  been  more  than  questioned.  But  external  blem- 
ishes are  lost  in  the  intrinsic  grandeur  of  the  piece  : the  spirit 
of  Joanna  is  presented  to  us  with  an  exalting  and  pathetic 
force  sufficient  to  make  us  blind  to  far  greater  improprieties. 
Joanna  is  a pure  creation,  of  half-celestial  origin,  combining  the 
mild  charms  of  female  loveliness  with  the  awful  majesty  of  a 
prophetess,  and  a sacrifice  doomed  to  perish  for  her  country. 
She  resembles,  in  Schiller’s  view,  the  Iphigenia  of  the  Greeks  ; 
and  as  such,  in  some  respects,  he  has  treated  her. 

The  woes  and  desolation  of  the  land  have  kindled  in  Joan- 
na’s keen  and  fervent  heart  a fire,  xfhich  the  loneliness  of  hex- 
life,  and  her  deep  feelings  of  religion,  have  noui-islxed  and 
fanned  into  a holy  flame.  She  sits  in  solitude  with  her  flocks, 
beside  the  mountain  chapel  of  the  Virgin,  under  the  ancient 
Druid  oak,  a wizard  spot,  the  haunt  of  evil  spirits  as  well  as 
of  good  ; and  visions  are  revealed  to  her  such  as  human  eyes 
behold  not.  It  seems  the  foi-ce  of  her  own  spirit,  expressing 
its  feelings  in  foi-ms  which  react  upon  itself.  The  strength  of 
her  impulses  persuades  her  that  she  is  called  from  on  high  to 
deliver  her  native  France  ; the  intensity  of  her  own  faith  per- 
suades othei-s  ; she  goes  forth  on  her  mission  ; all  bends  to 
the  fiery  vehemence  of  her  will ; she  is  inspired  because  she 
thinks  herself  so.  There  is  something  beautiful  and  moving 
in  the  aspect  of  a noble  enthusiasm,  fostered  in  the  secret 
soul,  amid  obstructions  and  depressions,  and  at  length  burst- 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


157 


ing  forth  with  an  overwhelming  force  to  accomplish  its  ap- 
pointed end  : the  impediments  wdiich  long  hid  it  are  now 
become  testimonies  of  its  power  ; the  -very  ignorance,  and 
meanness,  and  error,  which  still  in  part  adhere  to  it,  increase 
our  sympathy  without  diminishing  our  admiration  ; it  seems 
the  triumph,  hardly  contested,  and  not  wholly  carried,  but  still 
the  triumph,  of  Mind  over  Fate,  of  human  volition  over  ma- 
terial necessity. 

All  this  Schiller  felt,  and  has  presented  with  even  more  than 
his  usual  skill.  The  secret  mechanism  of  Joanna’s  mind  is 
concealed  from  us  in  a dim  religious  obscurity  ; but  its  active 
movements  are  distinct ; wre  behold  the  lofty  heroism  'of  her 
feelings  ; she  affects  us  to  the  very  heart.  The  quiet,  devout 
innocence  of  her  early  years,  when  she  lived  silent,  shrouded 
in  herself,  meek  and  kindly  though  not  communing  with 
others,  makes  us  love  her  : the  celestial  splendour  which  illu- 
minates her  after-life  adds  reverence  to  our  love.  Her  words 
and  actions  combine  an  overpowering  force  with,  a calm  un- 
pretending dignity  : we  seem  to  understand  how  they  must 
have  carried  in  their  favour  the  universal  conviction.  Joanna 
is  the  most  noble  being  in  tragedy.  We  figure  her  with  her 
slender  lovely  form,  her  mild  but  spirit-speaking  countenance  ; 
‘ beautiful  and  terrible  ; ’ bearing  the  banner  of  the  Virgin 
before  the  hosts  of  her  country  ; travelling  in  the  strength  of 
a rapt  soul ; irresistible  by  faith  ; ‘ the  lowly  herdsmaid,’ 
greater  in  the  grandeur  of  her  simple  spirit  than  the  kings 
and  queens  of  this  world.  Yet  her  breast  is  not  entirely  in- 
sensible to  human  feeling,  nor  her  faith  never  liable  to  wTaver. 
When  that  inexorable  vengeance,  which  had  shut  her  ear 
against  the  voice  of  mercy  to  the  enemies  of  France,  is  sus- 
pended at  the  sight  of  Lionel,  and  her  heart  experiences  the 
first  touch  of  mortal  affection,  a baleful  cloud  overspreads  the 
serene  of  her  mind  ; it  seems  as  if  Heaven  had  forsaken  her, 
or  from  the  beginning  permitted  demons  or  earthly  dreams 
to  deceive  her.  The  agony  of  her  spirit,  fnvolved  in  endless 
and  horrid  labyrinths  of  doubt,  is  powerfully  portrayed.  She 
has  crowned  the  king  at  Rheims  ; and  all  is  joy,  and  pomp, 
and  jubilee,  and  almost  adoration  of  Joanna  : but  Joanna’s 


158 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


thoughts  are  not  of  joy.  The  sight  of. her  poor  but  kind  and 
true-hearted  sisters  in  the  crowd,  moves  her  to  the  soul. 
Amid  the  tumult  and  magnificence  of  this  royal  pageant,  she 
sinks  into  a reverie  ; her  small  native  dale  of  Arc,  between 
its  quiet  hills,  rises  on  her  mind’s  eye,  with  its  straw-roofed 
huts,  and  its  clear  greensward  ; where  the  sun  is  even  then 
shining  so  brightly,  and  the  sky  is  so  blue,  and  all  is  so  calm 
and.  motherly  and  safe.  She  sighs  for  the  peace  of  that  se- 
questered home  ; then  shudders  to  think  that  she  shall  never 
see  it  more.  Accused  of  witchcraft,  by  her  own  ascetic  melan- 
cholic father,  she  utters  no  word  of  denial  to  the  charge  ; for 
her  heart  is  dark,  it  is  tarnished  by  earthly  love,  she  dare  not 
raise  her  thoughts  to  Heaven.  Parted  from  her  sisters  ; cast 
out  with  horror  by  the  people  she  had  lately  saved  from  de- 
spair, she  wanders  forth,  desolate,  forlorn,  not  knowing  whith- 
er. Yet  she  does  not  sink  under  this  sore  trial : as  she  suffers 
from  without,  and  is  forsaken  of  men,  her  mind  grows  clear 
and  strong,  her  confidence  returns.  She  is  now  more  firmly 
fixed  in  our  admiration  than  before  ; tenderness  is  united  to 
our  other  feelings  ; and  her  faith  has  been  proved  by  sharp 
vicissitudes.  Her  countrymen  recognise  their  error  ; Joanna 
closes  her  career  by  a glorious  death  ; we  take  farewell  of  her 
in  a solemn  mood  of  heroic  pity. 

Joanna  is  the  animating  principle  of  this  tragedy ; the 
scenes  employed  in  developing  her  character  and  feelings  con- 
stitute its  great  charm.  Yet  there  are  other  personages  in  it, 
that  leave  a distinct  and  pleasing  impression  of  themselves  in 
our  memory.  Agnes  Sorel,  the  soft,  languishing,  generous 
mistress  of  the  Dauphin,  relieves  and  heightens  by  compaiison 
the  sterner  beauty  of  the  Maid.  Dunois,  the  Bastard  of  Or- 
leans, the  lover  of  Joanna,  is  a blunt,  frank,  sagacious  soldier, 
and  well  described.  And  Talbot,  the  gray  veteran,  delineates 
his  dark,  unbelieving,  indomitable  soul,  by  a few  slight  but 
expressive  touches  : he  sternly  passes  down  to  the  land,  as  he 
thinks,  of  utter  nothingness,  contemptuous  even  of  the  fate 
that  destroys  him,  and 

‘ On  the  soil  of  France  lie  sleeps,  as  does 
A hero  on  the  shield  he  would  not  quit.' 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


159 


A few  scattered  extracts  may  in  part  exhibit  some  of  these 
inferior  personages  to  our  readers,  though  they  can  afford  us 
no  impression  of  the  Maid  herself.  Joanna’s  character,  like 
every  finished  piece  of  art,  to  be  judged  of  must  be  seen  in  all 
its  bearings.  It  is  not  in  parts,  but  as  a whole,  that  the  de- 
lineation moves  us  ; by  light  and  manifold  touches,  it  works 
upon  our  hearts,  till  they  melt  before  it  into  that  mild  rap- 
ture, free  alike  from  the  violence  and  the  impurities  of 
Nature,  which  it  is  the  highest  triumph  of  the  Artist  to  com- 
municate. 


Act  III.  Scene  IV. 

[The  Dauphin  Charles,  with  his  suits:  afteneards  Joanna.  She 
is  in  armour , hut  without  her  helmet ; and  wears  a garland  in 
her  hair. 

Dunois  [steps  forward] . 

My  heart  made  choice  of  her  while  she  was  lowly  ; 

This  new  honour  raises  not  her  merit 
Or  my  love.  Here,  in  the  presence  of  my  King 
And  of  this  holy  Archbishop,  I offer  her 
My  hand  and  princely  rank,  if  she  regard  me 
As  worthy  to  he  hers. 

Charles.  ' Resistless  Maid, 

Thou  addest  miracle  to  miracle  ! 

Henceforward  I believe  that  nothing  is 
Impossible  to  thee.  Thou  hast  subdued 
This  haughty  spirit,  that  till  now  defied 
Tli’  omnipotence  of  Love. 

La  Hire  [steps  forward].  If  I mistake  not 
Joanna’s  form  of  mind,  what  most  adorns  hel- 
ls her  modest  heart.  * The  rev’rence  of  the  great 
She  merits  ; but  her  thoughts  will  never  rise 
So  high.  She  strives  not  after  giddy  splendours : 

The  true  affection  of  a faithful  soul 
Contents  her,  and  the  still,  sequester’d  lot 
Which  with  this  hand  I offer  her. 

Charles.  Thou  too, 

La  Hire  ? Two  valiant  suitors,  equal  in 
Heroic  virtue  and  renown  of  war  ! 

— Wilt  thou,  that  hast  united  my  dominions. 

Soften’d  my  opposers,  part  my  firmest  friends  ? 

Both  may  not  gain  thee,  each  deserving  thee  : 

Speak,  then!  Thy  heart  must  here  be  arbiter. 


160 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Agnes  Sorel  [ approaches ]. 

Joanna  is  embarrass’d  and  surprised  ; 

I see  the  bashful  crimson  tinge  her  cheeks. 

Let  her  have  time  to  ask  her  heart,  to  open 
Her  clos’d  bosom  in  trustful  confidence 
With  me.  The  moment  is  arriv’d  when  I 
In  sisterly  communion  also  may 
Approach  the  rigorous  Maid,  and  offer  her 
The  solace  of  my  faithful,  silent  breast. 

First  let  us  women  sit  in  secret  judgment 
On  this  matter  that  concerns  us  ; then  expect 
What  we  shall  have  decided. 

Charles  [about:  to  go\.  Be  it  so,  then ! 

Joanna.  Not  so,  Sire  ! ’Twas  not  the  embarrassment 
Of  virgin  shame  that  dy'd  my  cheeks  in  crimson  : 

To  this  lady  I have  nothing  to  confide, 

Which  I need  blush  to  speak  of  before  meii. 

Much  am  I honour’d  by  the  preference 
Of  these  two  noble  Knights  ; but  it  was  not 
To  chase  vain  worldly  grandeurs,  that  I left 
The  shepherd  moors ; not  in  my  hair  to  bind 
The  bridal  garland,  that  I girt  myself 
With  warlike  armour.  To  far  other  work 
Am  I appointed  : and  the  spotless  virgin 
Alone  can  do  it.  I am  the  soldier 
Of  the  God  of  Battles  ; to  no  living  man 
Can  I be  wife. 

Archbishop.  As  kindly  help  to  man 
Was  woman  born  ; and  in  obeying  Nature 
She  best  obeys  and  reverences  Heaven. 

When  the  command  of  God  who  summon’d  thee 
To  battle  is  fulfill’d,  thou  wilt  lay  down 
Thy  weapons,  and  return  to  that  soft  sex’ 

Which  thou  deny’st,  which  is  not  call’d  to  do 
The  bloody  work  of  war. 

J oanna.  Father,  as  yet 

I know  not  how  the  Spirit  will  direct  me  : 

When  the  needful  time  comes  round,  His  voice 
Will  not  be  silent,  and  I will  obey  it. 

For  the  present,  I am  bid  complete  the  task 
He  gave  me.  My  sov’reign’s  brow  is  yet  uncrown’d, 

His  head  unwetted  by  the  holy  oil, 

He  is  not  yet  a King. 

Chari, es.  We  are  journeying 

Towards  Kheirns. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


1G1 


Joanna.  Let  us  not  linger  by  the  way. 

Our  foes  are  busy  round  us,  shutting  up 

Thy  passage  : I will  lead  thee  through  them  all. 

Dunois.  And  when  the  work  shall  he  fulfill’d,  when  we 
Have  marched  in  triumph  into  Rlieims, 

Will  not  Joanna  then— 

Joanna  If  God  see  meet 

That  I return  with  life  and  vict’ry  from 
These  broils,  my  task  is  ended,  and  the  herdsmaid 
Has  nothing  more  to  do  in  her  King’s  palace. 

Charles  [ taking  her  hand ]. 

It  is  the  Spirit's  voice  impels  thee  now, 

And  Love  is  mute  in  thy  inspired  bosom. 

Believe  me,  it  will  not  be  always  mute  ! 

Our  swords  will  rest ; and  Victory  will  lead 
Meek  Peace  by  th’  hand,  and  Joy  will  come  again 
To  ev’ry  breast,  and  softer  feelings  waken 
In  every  heart : in  thy  heart  also  waken  ; 

And  tears  of  sweetest  longing  wilt  thou  weep, 

Such  as  thine  eyes  have  never  shed.  This  heart, 

Now  fill’d  by  Heav’n,  will  softly  open 
To  some  terrestrial  heart.  Thou  hast  begun 
By  blessing  thousands  ; but  thou  wilt  conclude 
By  blessing  one. 

Joanna.  Dauphin  ! Art  thou  weary 

Of  the  heavenly  vision,  that  thou  seekest 
To  deface  its  chosen  vessel,  wouldst  degrade 
To  common  dust  the  Maid  whom  God  has  sent  thee  ? 

Ye  blind  of  heart ! O ye  of  little  faith  ! 

Heaven's  brightness  is  about  you,  before  your  eyes 

Unveils  its  wonders ; and  ye  see  in  me 

Naught  but  a woman.  Dare  a woman,  think  ye, 

Clothe  herself  in  iron  harness,  and  mingle 
In  the  wreck  of  battle  ? Woe,  woe  tome, 

If  bearing  in  my  hand  th’  avenging  sword 
Of  God,  I bore  in  my  vain  heart  a love 
To  earthly  man  ! Woe  to  me  ! It  were  better 
That  I never  had  been  born.  No  more, 

No  more  of  this ! Unless  ye  would  awake  the  wrath 
Of  Him  that  dwells  in  me  ! The  eye  of  man 
Desiring  me  is  an  abomination 
And  a horror. 

Charles.  Cease  ! ’Tis  vain  to  urge  her. 

Joanna.  Bid  the  trumpets  sound ! This  loit'ring  grieves 
And  harasses  me.  Something  chases  me 

11 


162 


TEE  LIFE  OF  FEIEDE1CE  SOHILLEE. 


From  sloth,  and  drives  me  forth  to  do  my  mission, 
Stern  beck'ning  me  to  my  appointed  doom. 


Scene  V. 

A Knight  [in  haste]. 

Charles.  How  now  ? 

Knight.  The  enemy  has  pass’d  the  Marne  ; 

Is  forming  as  for  battle. 

Joanna  [as  if  inspired].  Arms  and  battle  ! 

My  soul  has  cast  away  its  bonds  ! To  arms ! 

Prepare  yourselves,  while  I prepare  the'  rest ! [She  hastens  out. 

***** 

[ Trumpets  sound  with  a piercing  tone , and  while  the  scene  is  changing 
pass  into  a wild  tumultuous  sound  of  battle.] 


Scene  YI. 

[ The  scene  changes  to  an  open  space  encircled  with  trees.  During  the  mu- 
sic, soldiers  are  seen  hastily  retreating  across  the  background.] 

Talbot,  leaning  upon  Fastolf,  and  accompanied  by  Soldiers.  Soon 
after,  Lionel. 

Talbot.  Here  set  me  down  beneath  this  tree,  and  you 
Betake  yourselves  again  to  battle  : quick  ! 

I need  no  help  to  die. 

Fastolf.  O day  of  woe ! [Lionel  enters. 

Look,  what  a sight  awaits  you,  Lionel ! 

Our  General  expiring  of  his  wounds  ! 

Lionel.  Now  God  forbid ! Rise,  noble  Talbot ! This 
Is  not  a time  for  you  to  faint  aud  sink. 

Yield  not  to  Death  ; force  faltering  Nature 
By  your  strength  of  soul,  that  life  depart  not ! 

Talbot.  In  vain  ! The  day  of  Destiny  is  come 
That  prostrates  with  the  dust  our  power  in  France. 

In  vain,  in  the  fierce  clash  of  desp’rate  battle, 

Have  I risk’d  our  utmost  to  withstand  it : 

The  bolt  has  smote  and  crush’d  me,  and  I lie 
To  rise  no  more  forever.  Rheims  is  lost ; 

Make  haste  to  rescue  Paris. 

Lionel.  * Paris  has  surrender’d 

To  the  Dauphin  : an  express  is  just  arriv'd 
With  tidings. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


163 


Talbot  [ tears  away  Ms  bandages']. 

Then  flow  out,  ye  life-streams  ; 

I am  grown  to  loathe  this  Sun. 

Lionel.  They  want  me  ! 

Fastolf,  hear  him  to  a place  of  safety : 

We  can  hold  this  post  few  instants  longer, 

The  coward  knaves  are  giving  way  on  all  sides, 

Irresistible  the  Witch  is  pressing  on. 

Talbot.  Madness,  thou  conquerest,  and  I must  yield  ; 
Stupidity  can  baffle  the  very  gods. 

High  Reason,  radiant  Daughter  of  God’s  Head, 

Wise  Foundress  of  the  system  of  the  Universe, 

Conductress  of  the  stars,  who  art  thou,  then, 

If,  tied  to  tli’  tail  o’  tli’  wild  horse  Superstition, 

Thou  must  plunge,  eyes  open,  vainly  shrieking, 

Sheer  down  with  that  drunk  Beast  to  the  Abyss  ? 

Cursed  who  sets  his  life  upon  the  great 
And  dignified  ; and  with  forecasting  spirit 
Forms  wise  projects!  The  Fool-king  rules  this  world. 
Lionel.  O,  Death  is  near  you  ! Think  of  your  Creator  ! 
Talbot.  Had  we  as  brave  men  been  defeated 
By  brave  men,  we  might  have  consoled  ourselves 
With  common  thoughts  of  Fortune’s  fickleness : 

But  that  a sorry  farce  should  be  our  ruin ! — 

Did  our  earnest  toilsome  struggle  merit 
No  graver  end  than  this  ? 

Lionel,  [grasps  Ms  Lind],  Talbot,  Farewell ! 

9 The  meed  of  bitter  tears  I’ll  duly  pay  you, 

When  the  fight  is  done,  should  I outlive  it. 

Now  Fate  calls  me  to  the  field,  where  yet 
She  wav’ring  sits,  and  shakes  her  doubtful  urn. 

Farewell ! we  meet  beyond  the  unseen  shore. 

Brief  parting  for  long  friendship  ! God  be  with  you ! 

Talbot.  Soon  it  is  over,  and  to  tli’  Earth  I render, 

To  the  everlasting  Sun,  the  atoms, 

Which  for  pain  and  pleasure  join’d  to  form  me ; 

And  of  the  mighty  Talbot,  whose  renown 

Once  fill  d the  world,  remains  nought  but  a handful 

Of  light  dust.  Thus  man  comes  to  his  end  ; 

And  our  one  conquest  in  this  fight  of  life 
Is  the  conviction  of  life’s  nothingness, 

And  deep  disdain  of  all  that  sorry  stufE 
We  once  thought  lofty  and  desirable. 


104 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Scene  VII. 

Enter  Charles  ; Burgundy  ; Dunois  ; Du  Chatel  ; and  Soldiers. 

Burgun.  Tlie  trench  is  storm'd. 

Dunoit.  The  victory  is  ours. 

Charles  [ observing  Talbot ]. 

Ha ! who  is  this  that  to  the  light  of  day 
Is  bidding  his  constrained  and  sad  farewell  ? 

His  bearing  speaks  no  common  man  : go,  haste, 

Assist  him,  if  assistance  yet  avail. 

[Soldiers  from  the  Dauphin's  suite  step  forward. 
Fastolf.  Back  ! Keep  away  ! Approach  not  the  Departing, 

Whom  in  life  ye  never  wish’d  too  near  you. 

Burgun.  What  do  I see  ? Lord  Talbot  in  his  blood  ! 

[He  (joes  towards  him.  Talbot  gazes  fixedly  at  him , and 
dies. 

Fastolf.  Off,  Burgundy  ! With  th’  aspect  of  a traitor 
Poison  not  the  last  look  of  a hero. 

Dunois.  Dreaded  Talbot ! stern,  unconquerable  ! . 

Dost  thou  content  ih.ee  with  a space  so  narrow, 

And  the  wide  domains  of  France  once  could  not 
Stay  the  striving  of  thy  giant  spirit  ? — 

Now  for  the  first  time,  Sire,  I call  you  King  : 

The  crown  but  totter’d  on  your  head,  so  long 
As  in  this  body  dwelt  a soul. 

Charles  [after  looking  at  the  dead  in  silence'].  It  was 
A higher  hand  that  conquer’d  him,  not  we. 

Here  on  the  soil  of  France  he  sleeps,  as  does 
A hero  on  the  shield  he  would  not  quit. 

Bring  him  away.  [Soldiers  lift  the  corpse , and  carry  it  off. 

And  peace  be  with  his  dust ! 

A fair  memorial  shall  arise  to  him 

I’  th’  midst  of  France  : here,  where  the  hero’s  course 

And  life  were  finished,  let  his  hones  repose. 

Thus  far  no  other  foe  has  e’er  advanced. 

His  epitaph  shall  be  the  place  he  fell  on. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


165 


. Scene  IX. 

Another  empty  space  in  the  field  of  battle.  In  the  distance  are  seen  the 
towers  of  Rheims  illuminated  by  the  sun. 

A Knight  cased  in  black  armour  icith  his  visor  shut.  Joanna  follows  him 
to  the  front  of  the  scene  where  he  stops  and  awaits  her. 

Joanna.  Deceiver  ! Now  I see  thy  craft.  Thou  hast, 

By  seeming  flight,  enticed  me  from  the  battle, 

And  warded  death  and  destiny  from  off  the  head 
Of  many  a Briton.  Now  they  reach  thy  own. 

Knight.  ‘ Why  dost  thou  follow  me,  and  track  my  steps 
With  murd’rous  fury  ? I am  not  appointed 
To  die  by  thee. 

Joanna.  Deep  in  my  lowest  soul 
I hate  thee  as  the  Night,  which  is  thy  colour. 

To  sweep  thee  from  the  face  of  Earth,  I feel 
Some  irresistible  desire  impelling  me. 

Who  art  thou  ? Lift  thy  visor  : had  not  I 

Seen  Talbot  fall,  I should  have  named  thee  Talbot. 

Knight.  Speaks  not  the  prophesying  Spirit  in  thee  ? 

Joanna.  It  tells  me  loudly,  in  my  inmost  bosom, 

That  Misfortune  is  at  hand. 

Knight.  Joanna  d’Arc ! 

Up  to  the  gates  of  Rheims  hast  thou  advanced, 

Led  on  by  victory.  Let  the  renown 
Already  gain’d  suffice  thee  ! As  a slave 
Has  Fortune  serv’d  thee  : emancipate  her, 

Ere  in  wrath  she  free  herself  ; fidelity 
She  hates  ; no  one  obeys  she  to  the  end. 

Joanna.  How  say’st  thou,  in  the  middle  of  my  course, 

That  I should  pause  and  leave  my  work  unfinish’d  ? 

I will  conclude  it,  and  fulfil  my  vow. 

Knight.  Nothing  can  withstand  thee  ; thou  art  most  strong  ; 

In  ev’ry  battle  thou  prevailest.  But  go 
Into  no  other  battle.  Hear  my  warning  ! 

Joanna.  This  sword  I quit  not,  till  the  English  yield. 

Knight.  Look  ! Yonder  rise  the  towers  of  Rheims,  the  goal 
And  purpose  of  thy  march  ; thou  seest  the  dome 
Of  the  cathedral  glittering  in  the  sun  : 

There  wouldst  thou  enter  in  triumphal  pomp, 

To  crown  thy  sov’reign  and  fulfil  thy  vow. 

Enter  not  there.  Turn  homewards.  Hear  my  warning  ! 

Joanna.  Who  art  thou,  false,  double-tongued  betrayer, 


1G6  THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER 

That  wouldst  frighten  and  perplex  me  ? Dar’st  thou 
Utter  lying  oracles  to  me  ? 

[27 le  Black  Knight  attempts  to  go  ; she  steps  in  his  way. 

No! 

Thou  shalt  answer  me,  or  perish  by  me  ! 

\_She  lifts  her  arm  to  strike  him. 
Knight  [ touches  her  with  his  hand : she  stands  immovable ]. 

Kill  what  is  mortal ! 

[Darkness,  lightning  and  thunder.  The  Knight  sinks. 
Joanna  [stands  first  amazed,  but  soon  recovers  herself]. 

It  was  nothing  earthly. 

Some  delusive  form  of  Hell,  some  spirit 
Of  Falsehood,  sent  from  th’  everlasting  Pool 
To  tempt  and  terrify  my  fervent  soul ! 

Bearing  the  sword  of  God,  what  do  I fear  ? 

Victorious  will  I end  my  fated  course  ; 

Though  Hell  itself  with  all  its  fiends  assail  me, 

My  heart  and  faith  shall  never  faint  or  fail  me.  [<S/ifi  is  going. 

Scene  X. 

Lionel,  Joanna. 

Lionel.  Accursed  Sorceress,  prepare  for  battle  : 

Not  both  of  us  shall  leave  the  place  alive. 

Thou  hast  destroyed  the  chosen  of  my  host ; 

Brave  Talbot  has  breath’d  out  his  mighty  spirit 
In  my  bosom.  I will  avenge  the  Dead, 

Or  share  his  fate.  And  wouldst  thou  know  the  man. 

Who  brings  thee  glory,  let  him  die  or  conquer, 

I am  Lionel,  the  last  survivor 

Of  our  chiefs  ; and  still  un vanquish’d  is  this  arm. 

[He  rushes  towards  her  ; after  a short  contest,  she  strikes  Hie 
sword  from  his  hand. 

Faithless  fortune ! [He  struggles  with  her. 

Joanna  [seizes  him  by  the  plume  from  behind,  and  tears  his  helmet 
violently  down,  so  that  his  face  is  exposed:  at  the  same 
time  she  lifts  her  sword  with  the  right  hand]. 

Sufier  what  thou  soughtest ! 

The  Virgin  sacrifices  thee  through  me  ! 

[At  this  moment  she  looks  in  his  face  ; his  aspect  touches  her  j 
she  stands  immovable,  and  then  slowly  drops  her  arm. 
Lionel.  Why  lingerest  thou,  and  stayest  the  stroke  of  death  ? 

My  honour  thou  hast  taken,  take  my  life  : 

’Tis  in  thy  hands  to  take  it ; I want  not  mercy. 

[$7i.e  gives  him  a sign  with  her  hand  to  depart. 


SCHILLER  AT  WELMAR. 


1G7 


Fly  from  thee  ? Owe  thee  my  life  ? Die  rather  ! 

Joanna  [her  face  turned  away], 

I will  not  remember  that  thou  owedst 
Thy  life  to  me. 

Lionel.  I hate  thee  and  thy  gift. 

I want  not  mercy.  Kill  thy  enemy, 

Who  meant  to  kill  thee,  who  abhors  thee ! 

Joanna.  Kill  me,  and  fly! 

. Lionel.  Ha ! How  is  this  ? 

Joanna  [hides  her  face'].  Woe’s  me  ! 

Lionel  [approaches  her]. 

Thou  killest  every  Briton,  I have  heard, 

Whom  thou  subdu’st  in  battle  : why  spare  me  ? 

Joanna  [ lifts  her  sword  with  a rapid  movement  against  him,  hut 
quickly  lets  it  sink  again,  when  she  observes  his  face]. 
O Holy  Virgin  ! 

Lionel.  Wherefore  namest  thou 

The  Virgin  ? She  knows  nothing  of  thee  ; Heaven 
Has  naught  to  say  to  thee. 

Joanna  [in  violent  anguish].  What  have  I done  ! 

My  vow,  my  vow  is  broke  ! [ Wrings  her  hands  in  depair. 

Lionel  [looks  at  her  with  sympathy,  and  comes  nearer]. 

Unhappy  girl ! 

I pity  thee  ; thou  touchest  me  ; thou  showedst 
Mercy  to  me  alone.  My  hate  is  going : 

I am  constrain’d  to  feel  for  thee.  Who  art  thou  ? 

Whence  comest  thou  ? 

Joanna.  Away ! Begone  ! 

Lionel.  Thy  youth, 

Thy  beauty  melt  and  sadden  me  ; thy  look 
Goes  to  my  heart : I could  wish  much  to  save  thee  ; 

Tell  me  ho  w I may  ! Come,  come  with  me  ! Forsake 
This  horrid  business  ; cast  away  those  arms  ! 

Joanna.  I no  more  deserve  to  bear  them  ! 

Lionel.  Cast  them 

Away,  then,  and  come  with  me  ’! 

Joanna  [with  horror].  Come  with  thee  ! 

Lionel.  Thou  mayst  be  sav'd : come  with  me ! I will  save  thee. 
But  delay  not.  A strange  sorrow  for  thee 
Seizes  me,  and  an  unspeakable  desire 

To  save  thee.  [Seises  her  arm. 

Joanna.  Ha ! Dunois ! ’Tis  they  ! 

If  they  should  find  thee  ! — 

Lionel.  Fear  not  ; I will  guard  thee. 

Joanna.  I should  die,  were  they  to  kill  thee. 


168  THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Lionel. 


Ami 


Dear  to  thee  ? 

Joanna.  Saints  of  Heaven  ! 


Lionel. 


Shall  I ever 


See  thee,  hear  thee,  again  ? 
Joanna. 


Never  ! Never ! 


Lionel.  This  sword  for  pledge  that  I will  see  thee  ! 


Joanna. 


[He  wrests  the  sword  from  her. 
Madman ! 


Thou  dar’st  ? 

Lionel.  I yield  to  force  ; again  I’ll  see  thee. 


[Exit. 


The  introduction  of  supernatural  agency  in  this  play,  and 
the  final  aberration  from  the  truth  of  history,  harre  been  con- 
siderably censured  by  the  German  critics  : Schlegel,  we  recol- 
lect, calls  Joanna’s  end  a £ rosy  death.’  In  this  dramaturgic 
discussion,  the  mere  reader  need  take  no  great  interest.  To 
require  our  belief  in  apparitions  and  miracles,  things  which 
we  cannot  now  believe,  no  doubt  for  a moment  disturbs  our 
submission  to  the  poet’s  illusions  : but  the  miracles  in  this 
story  are  rare  and  transient,  and  of  small  account  in  the  gen- 
eral result : they  give  our  reason  little  trouble,  and  perhaps 
contribute  to  exalt  the  heroine  in  our  imaginations.  It  is  still 
the  mere  human  grandeur  of  Joanna’s  spirit  that  we  love  and 
reverence ; the  lofty  devotedness  with  which  she  is  transported, 
the  generous  benevolence,  the  irresistible  determination.  The 
heavenly  mandate  is  but  the  means  of  unfolding  these  qualities, 
and  furnishing  them  with  a proper  passport  to  the  minds  of 
her  age.  To  have  produced,  without  the  aid  of  fictions  like 
these,  a Joanna  so  beautiful  and  exalted,  would  undoubtedly 
have  yielded  greater  satisfaction  : but  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  difficulty  would  not  have  increased  in  a still  higher 
ratio.  The  sentiments,  the  characters,  are  not  only  accurate, 
but  exquisitely  beautiful  ; the  incidents,  excepting  the  very 
last,  are  possible,  or  even  probable : what  remains  is  but  a 
very  slender  evil. 

After  all  objections  have  been  urged,  and  this  among  other's 
has  certainly  a little  weight,  the  Maid  of  Orleans  will  remain 
one  of  the  very  finest  of  modern  dramas.  Perhaps,  among  all 
Schiller’s  plays,  it  is  the  one  which  evinces  most  of  that  quality 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


169 


denominated  genius  in  the  strictest  meaning  of  the  word. 
Wallenstein  embodies  more  thought,  more  knowledge,  more 
conception  ; but  it  is  only  in  parts  illuminated  by  that 
ethereal  brightness,  which  shines  over  every  part  of  this. 
The  spirit  of  the  romantic  ages  is  here  imaged  forth  ; but  the 
whole  is  exalted,  embellished,  ennobled.  It  is  what  the  critics 
call  idealised.  The  heart  must  be  cold,  the  imagination  dull, 
which  the  Jungfrau  von  Orleans  will  not  move. 

In  Germany  this  case  did  not  occur : the  reception  of  the 
work  was  beyond  example  flattering.  The  leading  idea  suited 
the  German  mind  ; the  execution  of  it  inflamed  the  hearts 
and  imaginations  of  the  people  ; they  felt  proud  of  their  great 
poet,  and  delighted  to  enthusiasm  with  his  poetry.  At  the 
first  exhibition:  of  the  play  in  Leipzig,  Schiller  being  in  the 
theatre,  though  not  among  the  audience,  this  feeling  was  dis- 
played in  a rather  singular  manner.  When  the  curtain  drop- 
ped at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  there  arose  on  all  sides  a shout 
of  “ Es  lebe  Friedrich  Schiller  ! ” accompanied  by  the  sound  of 
trumpets  and  other  military  music  : at  the  conclusion  of  the 
piece,  the  whole  assembly  left  then-  places,  went  out  and 
crowded  round  the  door  through  which  the  poet  was  ex- 
pected to  come  ; and  no  sooner  did  he  show  himself,  than  his 
admiring  spectators,  uncovering  their  heads,  made  an  avenue 
for  him  to  pass  ; and  as  he  walked  along,  many,  we  are  told, 
held  up  their  children,  and  exclaimed,  That  is  he!  ” ' 

This  must  have  been  a proud  moment  for  Schiller  ; but  also 
an  agitating,  painful  one  ; and  perhaps  on  the  whole,  the  latter 
feeling,  for  the  time,  prevailed.  Such  noisy,  formal,  and  tu- 
multuous plaudits  were  little  to  his  taste  : the  triumph  they 

1 Doering  (p  176)  ; — who  adds  as  follows  : 1 Another  testimony  of  ap- 
proval, very  different  in  its  nature,  he  received  at  the  first  production 
of  the  play  in  Weimar.  Knowing  and  valuing,  as  he  did,  the  public  of 
that  city,  it  could  uot  but  surprise  him  greatly,  when  a certain  young 

Doctor  S called  out  to  him,  “ Bravo  Schiller  ! ” from  the  gallery,  in 

a very  loud  tone  of  voice  Offended  at  such  impertinence,  the  poet 
hissed  strongly,  in  which  the  audience  joined  him.  He  likewise  ex- 
pressed in  words  his  displeasure  at  this  conduct  ; aud  the  youthful  sprig 
of  medicine  was,  by  direction  of  the  Court,  farther  punished  for  his  in- 
discreet applause,  by  some  admonitions  from  the  police.’ 


170 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


confer,  though,  plentiful,  is  coarse  ; and  Schiller’s  modest  nat- 
ure made  him  shun  the  public  gaze,  not  seek  it.  He  loved 
men,  and  did  not  affect  to  despise  their  approbation ; but 
neither  did  this  form  his  leading  motive.  To  him  art,  like 
virtue,  was  its  own  reward  ; he  delighted  in  his  tasks  for  the 
sake  of  the  fascinating  feelings  which  they  yielded  him  in 
their  performance.  Poetry  was  the  chosen  gift  of  his  mind, 
which  his  pleasure  lay  in  cultivating ; in  other  things  he  wished 
not  that  his  habits  or  enjoyments  should  be  different  from 
those  of  other  men. 

At  Weimar  his  present  way  of  life  was  like  his  former  one 
at  Jena  : his  business  was  to  study  and  compose  ; his  recrea- 
tions were  in  the  circle  of  his  family,  where  he  could  abandon 
himself  to  affections,  grave  or  trifling,  and  in  frank  and  cheer- 
ful intercourse  with  a few  friends.  Of  the  latter  he  had  lately 
formed  a social  club,  the  meetings  of  which  afforded  him  a 
regular  and  innocent  amusement.  He  still  loved  solitary 
walks  ; in  the  Park  at  Weimar  he  might  frequently  be  seen 
wandering  among  the  groves  and  remote  avenues,  with  a note- 
book in  his  hand  ; now  loitering  slowly  along,  now  standing 
still,  now  moving  rapidly  on  ; if  any  one  appeared  in  sight, 
he  would  dart  into  another  alley,  that  his  dream  might  not 
be  broken.'  ‘One  of  his  favorite  resorts,’  we  are  told,  ‘was 
the  thickly-overshadowed  rocky  path  which  leads  to  the 
R&mische  Ilaiis,  a pleaure-house  of  the  Duke’s  built  under  the 
direction  of  Goethe.  There  he  would  often  sit  in  the  gloom 
of  the  crags,  overgrown  with  cypresses  and  boxwood  ; shady 
hedges  before  him  ; not  far  from  the  murmur  of  a little  brook, 
which  there  gushes  in  a smooth  slaty  channel,  and  where 
some  verses  of  Goethe  are  cut  upon  a brown  plate  of  stone, 
and  fixed  in  the  rock.’  He  still  continued  to  study  in  the 
night : the  morning  was  spent  with  his  children  and  his  wife, 

1 Whatever  he  intended  to  write,  he  first  composed  in  his  head,  before 
putting  down  a line  of  it  on  paper.  He  used  to  call  a work  ready  so 
soon  as  its  existence  in  his  spirit  was  complete  : hence  in  the  public 
there  often  were  reports  that  such  and  such  a piece  of  his  was  finished, 
when,  in  the  common  sense,  it  was  not  even  begun.’ — Jordens  Lexicon, 
§ Schiller. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


171 


or  in  pastimes  sucli  as  we  have  noticed  ; in  the  afternoon  he 
revised  what  had  been  last  composed,  wrote  letters,  or  visited 
his  friends.  His  evenings  were  often  passed  in  the  theatre  ; 
it  was  the  only  public  place  of  amusement  which  he  ever 
visited  ; nor  was  it  for  the  purpose  of  amusement  that  he 
visited  this  : it  was  his  observatory,  where  he  watched  the 
effect  of  scenes  and  situations  ; devised  new  schemes  of  art, 
or  corrected  old  ones.  To  the  players  he  was  kind,  friendly  : 
on  nights  when  any  of  his  pieces  had  been  acted  successfully 
or  for  the  first  tirue,  he  used  to  invite  the  leaders  of  the  com- 
pany to  a supper  in  the  Stadthaus,  where  the  time  was  spent 
in  mirthful  diversions,  one  of  which  was  frequently  a recita- 
tion, by  Genast,  of  the  Capuchin’s  sermon  in  Wallenstein’s 
Camp.  Except  on  such  rare  occasions,  he  returned  home 
directly  from  the  theatre,  to  light  his  midnight  lamp,  and 
commence  the  most  earnest  of  his  labours. 

The  assiduity,  with  which  he  struggled  for  improvement  in 
dramatic  composition,  had  now  produced  its  natural  result : 
the  requisitions  of  his  taste  no  longer  hindered  the  operation 
of  his  genius  ; art  had  at  length  become  a second  nature.  A 
new  proof  at  once  of  his  fertility,  and  of  his  solicitude  for  far- 
ther improvement,  appeared  in  1803.  The  Braut  von  Messina 
was  an  experiment ; an  attempt  to  exhibit  a modern  subject 
and  modern  sentiments  in  an  antique  garb.  The  principle 
on  which  the  interest  of  this  play  rests  is  the  Fatalism  of  the 
ancients  : the  plot  is  of  extreme  simplicity  ; a Chorus  also  is 
introduced,  an  elaborate  discussion  of  the  nature  and  uses  of 
that  accompaniment  being  prefixed  by  way  of  preface.  The 
experiment  was  not  successful  : with  a multitude  of  individual 
beauties  this  Bricle  of  Messina  is  found  to  be  ineffectual  as  a 
whole  : it  does  not  move  us  ; the  great  object  of  every  trag- 
edy is  not  attained.  The  Chorus,  which  Schiller,  swerving 
from  the  Greek  models,  has  divided  into  two  contending  parts, 
and  made  to  enter  and  depart  with  the  principals  to  whom 
they  are  attached,  has  in  his  hands  become  the  medium  of 
conveying  many  beautiful  effusions  of  poetry  ; but  it  retards 
the  progress  of  the  plot ; it  dissipates  and  diffuses  our  sym- 
pathies ; the  interest  we  should  take  in  the  fate  and  prospects 


172 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


of  Manuel  and  Caesar,  is  expended  on  the  fate  and  prospects 
of  man.  For  beautiful  and  touching  delineations  of  life  ; for 
pensive  and  pathetic  reflections,  sentiments,  and  images,  con- 
veyed in  language  simple  but  nervous  and  emphatic,  this 
tragedy  stands  high  in  the  rank  of  modern  compositions. 
There  is  in  it  a breath  of  young  tenderness  and  ardour,  min- 
gled impressively  with  the  feelings  of  gray-haired  experience, 
whose  recollections  are  darkened  with  melancholy,  whose  very 
hopes  are  chequered  and  solemn.  The  implacable  Destiny 
which  consigns  the  brothers  to  mutual  enmity  and  mutual 
destruction,  for  the  guilt  of  a past  generation,  involving  a 
Mother  and  a Sister  in  their  ruin,  spreads  a sombre  hue  over 
all  the  poem  ; we  are  not  unmoved  by  the  characters  of  the 
hostile  Brothers,  and  we  pity  the  hapless  and  amiable  Bea- 
trice, the  victim  of  their  feud.  Still  there  is  too  little  action 
in  the  play  ; the  incidents  are  too  abundantly  diluted  with 
reflection  ; the  intei'est  pauses,  flags,  and  fails  to  produce  its 
full  effect.  For  its  specimens  of  lyrical  poetry,  tender,  affect- 
ing, sometimes  exquisitely  beautiful,  the  Bride  of  Messina  will 
long  deserve  a careful  perusal ; but  as  exemplifying  a new 
form  of  the  drama,  it  has  found  no  imitators,  and  is  likely  to 
find  none. 

The  slight  degree  of  failure  or  miscalculation  which  oc- 
curred in  the  present  instance,  was  next  year  abundantly  re- 
deemed. Wilhelm  Tell,  sent  out  in  1804,  is  one  of  Schiller’s 
very  finest  dramas  ; it  exhibits  some  of  the  highest  triumphs 
which  his  genius,  combined  with  his  art,  ever  realised.  The 
first  descent  of  Freedom  to  our  modern  world,  the  first  un- 
furling of  her  standard  on  the  rocky  pinnacle  of  Europe,  is 
here  celebrated  in  the  style  which  it  deserved.  There  is  no 
false  tinsel-decoration  about  Tell,  no  sickly  refinement,  no 
declamatory  sentimentality.  All  is  downright,  simple,  and 
agreeable  to  Nature  ; yet  all  is  adorned  and  purified  and  ren- 
dered beautiful,  without  losing  its  resemblance.  An  air  of 
freshness  and  wholesomeness  breathes  over  it  ; we  are  among 
honest,  inoffensive,  yet  fearless  peasants,  untainted  by  the 
vices,  undazzled  by  the  theories,  of  more  complex  and  per* 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


173 


verted  conditions  of  society.  The  opening  of  the  first  scene 
sets  us  down  among  the  Alps.  It  is  ‘ a high  rocky  shore  of 
the  Luzerne  Lake,  opposite  to  Schwytz.  The  lake  makes  a 
little  bight  in  the  land,  a hut  stands  at  a short  distance  from 
the  bank,  the  fisher-boy  is  rowing  himself  about  in  his  boat. 
Beyond  the  lake,  on  the  other  side,  we  see  the  green  mea- 
dows, the  hamlets  and  farms  of  Schwytz,  lying  in  the  clear 
sunshine.  On  our  left  are  observed  the  peaks  of  the  Hacken 
surrounded  with  clouds  : to  the  right,  and  far  in  the  distance, 
appear  the  glaciers.  We  hear  the  ranee  des  vaches  and  the 
tinkling  of  cattle-bells.’  This  first  impression  never  leaves 
us  ; we  are  in  a scene  where  all  is  grand  and  lovely  ; but  it  is 
the  loveliness  and  grandeur  of  unpretending,  unadulterated 
Nature.  These  Switzers  are  not  Arcadian  shepherds  or  spec- 
ulative patriots ; there  is  not  one  crook  or  beechen  bowl 
among  them,  and  they  never  mention  the  Social  Contract,  or 
the  Rights  of  Man.  They  are  honest  people,  driven  by  op- 
pression to  assert  their  privileges  ; and  they  go  to  work  like 
men  in  earnest,  bent  on  the  dispatch  of  business,  not  on  the 
display  of  sentiment.  They  are  not  philosophers  or  tribunes  ; 
but  frank,  stalwart  landmen  : even  in  the  field  of  Rutli,  they 
do  not  forget  their  common  feelings  ; the  party  that  arrive 
first  indulge  in  a harmless  little  ebullition  of  parish  vanity : 
“ We  are  first  here  ! ” they  say,  “ we  Unterwaldeners  ! ” They 
have  not  charters  or  written  laws  to  which  they  can  appeal ; 
but  they  have  the  traditional^  rights  of  their  fathers,  and  bold 
hearts  and  strong  arms  to  make  them  good.  The  rules  by 
which  they  steer  are  not  deduced  from  remote  premises,  by  a 
fine  process  of  thought  ; they  are  the  accumulated  result  of 
experience,  transmitted  from  peasant  sire  to  peasant  son. 
There  is  something  singularly  pleasing  in  this  exhibition  of 
genuine  humanity  ; of  wisdom,  embodied  in  old  adages  and 
practical  maxims  of  prudence  ; of  magnanimity,  displayed  in 
the  quiet  unpretending  discharge  of  the  humblest  every-day 
duties.  Truth  is  superior  to  Fiction  : we  feel  at  home  among 
these  brave  good  people  ; their  fortune  interests  us  more  than 
that  of  all  the  brawling,  vapid,  sentimental  heroes  in  creation. 
Yet  to  make  them  interest  us  was  the  very  highest  problem 


174 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER 


of  art ; it  was  to  copy  lowly  Nature,  to  give  us  a copy  of  it 
embellished  and  refined  by  the  agency  of  genius,  yet  preserv- 
ing the  likeness  in  every  lineament.  The  highest  quality  of 
art  is  to  conceal  itself  : these  peasants  of  Schiller’s  are  what 
every  one  imagines  he  could  imitate  successfully  ; yet  in  the 
hands  of  any  but  a true  and  strong-minded  poet  they  dwindle 
into  repulsive  coarseness  or  mawkish  insipidity.  Among  our 
own  writers,  who  have  tried  such  subjects,  we  remember  none 
that  has  succeeded  equally  with  Schiller.  One  potent  but  ill- 
fated  genius  has,  in  far  different  circumstances  and  with  far 
other  means,  showm  that  he  could  have  equalled  him  : the  Cot- 
ter’s Saturday  Night  of  Burns  is,  in  its  own  humble  way,  as 
quietly  beautiful,  as  simplex  munditiis,  as  the  scenes  of  Tell. 
No  other  has  even  approached  them  ; though  some  gifted  per- 
sons have  attempted  it.  Mr.  Wordsworth  is  no  ordinary  man  ; 
nor  are  his  pedlars,  and  leech-gatherers,  and  dalesmen,  with- 
out their  attractions  and  their  moral ; but  they  sink  into  whin- 
ing drivellers  beside  Rosselmann  the  Priest,  Ulric  the  Smith, 
Hans  of  the  Wall,  and  the  other  sturdy  confederates  of  Biitli 

The  skill  with  which  the  events  are  concatenated  in  this 
play  corresponds  to  the  truth  of  its  delineation  of  character. 
The  incidents  of  the  Swiss  Revolution,  as  detailed  in  Tschudi 
or  Muller,  are  here  faithfully  preserved,  even  to  their  minutest 
branches.  The  beauty  of  Schiller’s  descriptions  all  can  relish  ; 
their  fidelity  is  what  surprises  every  reader  who  has  been  in 
Switzerland.  Schiller  never  saw  the  scene  of  his  play  ; but 
his  diligence,  his  quickness  and  intensity  of  conception,  sup- 
plied this  defect.  Mountain  and  mountaineer,  conspiracy  and 
action,  are  all  brought  before  us  in  then-  true  forms,  all  glow- 
ing in  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  poet’s  fancy.  The  tyranny  of 
Gessler,  and  the  misery  to  which  it  has  reduced  the  land  ; the 
exasperation,  yet  patient  courage  of  the  people  ; then-  char- 
acters, and  those  of  their  leaders,  Fiirst,  Stauffacher,  and 
Melchthal ; their  exertions  and  ultimate  success,  described  as 
they  are  here,  keep  up  a constant  interest  in  the  piece.  It 
abounds  in  action,  as  much  as  the  Bride  of  Messina  is  defect- 
ive in  that  point. 

But  the  finest  delineation  is  undoubtedly  the  character  of 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


175 


Wilhelm  Tell, the  hero  of  the  Swiss  Revolt,  and  of  the  present 
drama.  In  Tell  are  combined  all  the  attributes  of  a great 
man,  without  the  help  of  education  or  of  great  occasions  to 
develop  them.  His  knowledge  has  been  gathered  chiefly  from 
his  own  experience,  and  this  is  bounded  by  his  native  moun- 
tains : he  has  had  no  lessons  or  examples  of  splendid  virtue, 
no  wish  or  opportunity  to  earn  renown  : he  has  grown  up  to 
manhood,  a simple  yeoman  of  the  Alps,  among  simple  yeo- 
men ; and  has  never  aimed  at  being  more.  Yet  we  trace  in 
him  a deep,  reflective,  earnest  spirit,  thirsting  for  activity,  yet 
bound  in  by  the  wholesome  dictates  of  prudence  ; a heart  be- 
nevolent, generous,  unconscious  alike  of  boasting  or  of  fear. 
It  is  this  salubrious  air  of  rustic,  unpretending  honesty  that 
forms  the  great  beauty  in  Tell’s  character : all  is  native,  all  is 
genuine  ; he  does  not  declaim  : he  dislikes  to  talk  of  noble 
conduct,  he  exhibits  it.  He  speaks  little  of  his  freedom,  be- 
cause he  has  always  enjoyed  it,  and  feels  that  he  can  always 
defend  it.  His  reasons  for  destroying  Gfessler  are  not  drawn 
from  jurisconsults  and  writers  on  morality,  but  from  the  ever- 
lasting instincts  of  Nature  : the  Austrian  Yogt  must  die  ; be- 
cause if  not,  the  wife  and  children  of  Tell  will  be  destroyed 
by  him.  The  scene,  where  the  peaceful  but  indomitable 
archer  sits  waiting  for  Gessler  in  the  hollow  way  among  the 
rocks  of  Kiissnacht,  presents  him  in  a striking  light.  Former 
scenes  had  shown  us  Tell  under  many  amiable  and  attractive 
aspects  ; we  knew  that  he  was  tender  as  well  as  brave,  that  he 
loved  to  haunt  the  mountain  tops,  and  inhale  in  silent  dreams 
the  influence  of  their  wild  and  magnificent  beauty : we  had 
seen  him  the  most  manly  and  warm-hearted  of  fathers  and 
husbands  ; intrepid,  modest,  and  decisive  in  the  midst  of 
peril,  and  venturing  his  life  to  bring  help  to  the  oppressed. 
But  here  his  mind  is  exalted  into  stern  solemnity  ; its  princi- 
ples of  action  come  before  us  with  greater  clearness,  in  this 
its  fiery  contest.  The  name  of  murder  strikes  a damp  across 
his  frank  and  fearless  spirit  ; while  the  recollection  of  his  chil- 
dren and  their  mother  proclaims  emphatically  that  there  is  no 
remedy.  Gessler  must  perish  : Tell  swore  it  darkly  in  his 
secret  soul,  when  the  monster  forced  him  to  aim  at  the  head 


176 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


of  his  boy  ; and  he  will  keep  his  oath.  His  thoughts  wander 
to  and  fro,  but  his  volition  is  unalterable  ; the  free  and  peace- 
ful mountaineer  is  to  become  a shedder  of  blood  : woe  to  them 
that  have  made  him  so  ! 

Travellers  come  along  the  pass ; the  unconcern  of  their 
every-day  existence  is  strikingly  contrasted  with  the  dark  and 
fateful  purposes  of  Tell.  The  shallow  innocent  garrulity  of 
Stiissi  the  Forester,  the  maternal  vehemence  of  Armgart’s 
Wife,  the  hard-hearted  haughtiness  of  Gessler,  successively 
presented  to  us,  give  an  air  of  truth  to  the  delineation,  and 
deepen  the  impressiveness  of  the  result. 

Act  IY.  Scene  III. 

The  Jiolloic  way  at  Kussnacht.  You  descend  from  behind  amid  rocks  ; 
and  travellers , before  appearing  on  the  scene,  are  seen  from  the  height 
above.  Rocks  encircle  the  whole  space  ; on  one  of  the  foremost  is  a pro- 
jecting crag  overgrown  with  brushiwod. 

Tell  [enters  with  his  bow]. 

Here  through  the  hollow  way  he’ll  pass  ; there  is 
No  other  road  to  Kussnacht:  here  I’ll  do  it ! 

The  opportunity  is  good  ; the  hushes 
Of  alder  there  will  hide  me  ; from  that  point 
My  arrow  hits  him ; the  strait  pass  prevents 
Pursuit.  Now,  Gessler,  balance  thy  account 
With  Heaven  ! Thou  must  he  gone  ; thy  sand  is  run. 

Remote  and  harmless  I have  liv’d  ; my  bow 
Ne’er  bent  save  on  the  wild  beast  of  the  forest ; 

My  thoughts  were  free  of  murder.  Thou  hast  scar'd  me 
From  my  peace  ; to  fell  asp-poison  hast  thou 
Changed  the  milk  of  kindly  temper  in  me  ; 

Thou  hast  accustom’d  me  to  horrors.  Gessler! 

The  archer  who  could  aim  at  his  boy’s  head 
Can  send  an  arrow  to  his  enemy’s  heart. 

Poor  little  hoys  ! My  kind  true  wife  ! I will 
Protect  them  from  thee,  Landvogt!  When  I drew 
That  bowstring,  and  my  hand  was  quiv'ring, 

And  with  devilish  joy  thou  mad’st  me  point  it 
At  the  child,  and  I in  fainting  anguish 
Entreated  thee  in  vain  ; then  with  a grim 
Irrevocable  oath,  deep  in  my  soul. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


177 


I vow’d  to  God  in  Heav’n,  that  the  next  aim 
I took  should  be  thy  heart.  The  vow  I made 
In  that  despairing  moment’s  agony 
Became  a holy  debt ; and  I will  pay  it. 

Thou  art  my  master,  and  my  Kaiser  s Vogt ; 

Yet  would  the  Kaiser  not  have  suffer'd  thee 
To  do  as  thou  hast  done.  He  sent  thee  hither 
To  judge  us  ; rigorously,  for  he  is  angry  ; 

But  not  to  glut  thy  savage  appetite 

With  murder,  and  thyself  be  safe,  among  us: 

There  is  a God  to  punish  them  that  wrong  us. 

Come  forth,  thou  bringer  once  of  bitter  sorrow, 

My  precious  jewel  now,  my  trusty  yew  ! 

A mark  I’ll  set  thee,  which  the  cry  of  woe 
Could  never  penetrate  : to  thee  it  shall  not 
Be  impenetrable.  And,  good  bowstring  ! 

Which  so  oft  in  sport  hast  serv'd  me  truly, 

Forsake  me  not  in  this  last  awful  earnest ; 

Yet  once  hold  fast,  thou  faithful  cord  ; thou  oft 
For  me  hast  wing’d  the  biting  arrow  ; 

Now  send  it  sure  and  piercing,  now  or  never! 

Fail  this,  there  is  no  second  in  my  quiver. 

[ Travellers  cross  the  scene . 

Here  let  me  sit  on  this  stone  bench,  set  up 
For  brief  rest  to  the  wayfarer  ; for  here 
There  is  no  home.  Each  pushes  on  quick,  transient, 
Regarding  not  the  other  or  his  sorrows. 

Here  goes  the  anxious  merchant,  and  the  light 
Unmoneyed  pilgrim  ; the  pale  pious  monk, 

The  gloomy  robber,  and  the  mirthful  showman  ; 

The  carrier  with  his  heavy-laden  horse, 

Who  comes  from  far-off  lands  ; for  every  road 
Will  lead  one  to  the  end  o’  th’  World. 

They  pass  ; each  hastening  forward  on  his  path, 

Pursuing  his  own  business  ; mine  is  death  ! [£&  down . 

Erewhile,  mjT  children,  were  your  father  out, 

There  was  a merriment  at  his  return  ; 

For  still,  on  coming  home,  he  brought  you  somewhat, 

Might  be  an  Alpine  flower,  rare  bird,  or  elf-bolt, 

Such  as  the  wand'rer  finds  upon  the  mountains: 

Now  he  is  gone  in  quest  of  other  spoil. 

12 


178 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


On  the  wild  way  he  sits  with  thoughts  of  murder : 

’Tis  for  his  enemy’s  life  he  lies  in  wait. 

And  yet  on  you,  dear  children,  you  alone 
He  thinks  as  then  : for  your  sake  is  he  here  ; 

To  guard  you  from  the  Tyrant’s  vengeful  mood, 

He  bends  his  peaceful  bow  for  work  of  blood. 

No  common  game  I watch  for.  Does  the  hunter 
Think  it  naught  to  roam  the  livelong  day, 

In  winter’s  cold  ; to  risk  the  desp’rate  leap 
From  crag  to  crag  ; to  climb  the  slipp’ry  face 
O’  th’  dizzy  steep,  glueing  his  steps  in’s  blood  ; 

And  all  to  catch  a pitiful  chamois  ? 

Here  is  a richer  prize  afield : the  heart 
Of  my  sworn  enemy,  that  would  destroy  me. 

[A  sound  of  gay  music  is  heard  in  the  distance  ; it  approaches. 

All  my  days,  the  bow  has  been  my  comrade, 

I have  trained  myself  to  archery  ; oft 
Have  I took  the  bull’s  eye,  many  a prize 
Brought  home  from  merry  shooting  ; but  to-day 
I will  perform  my  master-feat,  and  win  me 
The  best  prize  in  the  circuit  of  the  hills. 

[4  wedding  company  crosses  the  scene,  and  mounts  up  through 
the  Pass.  Tell  looks  at  them , leaning  upon  his  how  ; Stussi 
the  Forester  joins  him. 

Stussi.  ’Tis  Klostermey’r  of  Morlischachen  holds 
His  bridal  feast  today  : a wealthy  man  ; 

Has  half  a score  of  glens  i'  th’  Alps.  They’re  going 

To  fetch  the  bride  from  Imisee  ; tonight 

There  will  be  mirth  and  wassail  down  at  Kiissnacht. 

Come  you  ! All  honest  people  are  invited. 

Tell.  A serious  guest  befits  not  bridal  feasts. 

Stussi.  If  sorrow  press  you,  dash  it  from  your  heart ! 

Seize  what  you  can  : the  times  are  hard  ; one  needs 
To  snatch  employment  nimbly  while  it  passes. 

Here  tis  a bridal,  there  ’twill  be  a burial. 

Tell.  And  oftentimes  the  one  leads  to  the  other. 

Stussi.  The  way  o’  th’  world  at  present ! There  is  naught 
But  mischief  everywhere  : an  avalanche 
Has  come  away  iu  G-larus  ; and,  they  tell  me, 

A side  o’  th’  Glarnish  has  sunk  under  ground. 

Tell.  Do,  then,  the  very  hills  give  way  ! On  earth 
Is  nothing  that  endures. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


179 


Stussi,  In  foreign  parts,  too, 

Are  strange  wonders.  I was  speaking  with  a man 
From  Baden  : a Kniglit,  it  seems,  was  riding 
To  the  King  ; a swarm  of  hornets  met  him 
By  the  way,  and  fell  on’s  horse,  and  stung  it 
Till  it  dropt  down  dead  of  very  torment, 

And  the  poor  Knight  was  forced  to  go  afoot. 

Tell.  Weak  creatures  too  have  stings. 

[. Armgart's  Wife  enters  with  several  children , and  places  herself 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Pass. 

Stussi.  ’Tis  thought  to  bode 

Some  great  misfortune  to  the  land  ; some  black 
Unnatural  action. 

Tell.  Ev’ry  day  such  actions 

Occur  in  plenty  : needs  no  sign  or  wonder 
To  foreshow  them. 

Stussi.  Ay,  truly  ! Well  for  him 

That  tills  his  field  in  peace,  and  undisturb'd 
Sits  by  his  own  fireside  ! 

Tell  The  peacefulest 

Dwells  not  in  peaco,,  if  wicked  neighbours  hinder. 

[Tell  looks  often,  with  restless  expectation,  towards  the  top  of  the 
Pass. 

Stussi.  Too  true. — Good  b’ye  ! — You’re  waiting  here  for  some  one  ? 

Tell.  That  am  I. 

Stussi.  Glad  meeting  with  your  friends  ! 

You  are  from  Uri  ? His  Grace  the  Landvogt 
Is  expected  thence  today. 

Traveller  [enters].  Expect  not 
The  Landvogt  now.  The  waters,  from  the  rain, 

Are  flooded,  and  have  swept  down  all  the  bridges.  [Tell  stands  up. 

Armgart  [coming  forward]. 

The  Vogt  not  come  ! 

Stussi.  Did  you  want  aught  with  him  ? 

Armgart.  Ah  ! yes,  indeed  1 

Stussi.  Why  have  you  placed  yourself 

In  this  strait  pass  to  meet  him  ? 

Armgart.  In  the  pass 

He  cannot  turn  aside  from  me,  must  hear  me. 

Friesshardt  [comes  hastily  down  the  Pass,  and  calls  into  the  Scene], 
Make  way  ! make  way  ! My  lord  the  Landvogt 
Is  riding  close  at  hand. 

Armgart.  The  Landvogt  coming  ! 

[She  goes  with  her  children  to  the  front  of  the  Scene.  Gessler  and 
Rudolph  der  Hurras  appear  on  horseback  at  the  top  of  the  Pass. 


180 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Stussi  [to  Friesshardt ]. 

How  got  you  through,  the  water,  when  the  flood 
Had  carried  down  the  bridges  ? 

Friess.  We  have  battled 

With  the  billows,  friend  ; we  heed  no  Alp-flood. 

Stussi.  Were  you  o’  board  i’  th’  storm  ? 

Friess.  That  were  we  ; 

While  I live,  I shall  remember ’t. 

Stussi.  Stay,  stay! 

O,  tell  me  ! 

Friess.  Cannot ; must  run  on  t’  announce 
His  lordship  in  the  Castle.  [Exit. 

Stussi.  Had  these  fellows 

F th’  boat  been  honest  people,  ’t  would  have  sunk 
With  ev’ry  soul  of  them.  But  for  such  rakehells, 

Neither  fire  nor  flood  will  kill  them.  [He  bolts  round "]  Whither 
Went  the  Mountain-man  was  talking  with  me  ? [Exit. 

Gessler  and  Rudolph  der  Harras  on  horseback. 

Gessler.  Say  what  you  like,  I am  the  Kaiser’s  servant, 

And  must  think  of  pleasing  him.  He  sent  me 
Not  to  caress  these  hinds,  to  soothe  or  nurse  them : 

Obedience  is  the  word  1 The  point  at  issue  is 
Shall  Boor  or  Kaiser  here  be  lord  o’  th’  land. 

Armgart.  Now  is  the  moment ! Now  for  my  petition  ! 

[Approaches  timidly. 

Gessler.  This  Hat  at  Aldorf,  mark  you,  I set  up 
Not  for  the  joke’s  sake,  or  to  try  the  hearts 
O’  th’  people  ; these  I know  of  old : but  that 
They  might  he  taught  to  bend  their  necks  to  me, 

Which  are  too  straight  and  stiff : and  in  the  way 
Where  they  are  hourly  passing,  I have  planted 
This  offence,  that  so  their  eyes  may  fall  on't, 

And  remind  them  of  their  lord,  whom  they  forget. 

Rudolph.  But  yet  the  people  have  some  rights — 

Gessler.  Which  now 

Is  not  a time  for  settling  or  admitting. 

Mighty  things  are  on  the  anvil.  The  house 
Of  Hapsburg  must  wax  powerful;  what  the  Father 
Gloriously  began,  the  Son  must  forward  ; 

This  people  is  a stone  of  stumbling,  which 
One  way  or  t'other  must  be  put  aside. 

[They  are  about  to  pass  along.  The  Woman  throws  herself  before 
the  Landvogt. 

Arkgart.  Mercy,  gracious  Landvogt ! Justice!  Justice! 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


181 


Gessler.  Why  do  you  plague  me  here,  and  stop  my  way, 

T th’  open  road  ? Off  ! Let  me  pass ! 

Armgart.  My  husband 

Is  in  prison  ; these  orphans  cry  for  bread. 

Have  pity,  good  your  Grace,  have  pity  on  us ! 

Rudolph.  Who  or  what  are  you,  then  ? Who  is  your  husband  ? 
Armgart.  A poor  wild-hay-man  of  the  Rigiberg, 

Whose  trade  is,  on  the  brow  of  the«abyss, 

To  mow  the  common  grass  from  craggy  shelves 
And  nooks  to  which  the  cattle  dare  not  climb. 

Rudolph  [to  Gessler],  By  Heaven,  a wild  and  miserable  life! 

Do  now  ! do  let  the  poor  drudge  free,  I pray  you ! 

Whatever  be  his  crime,  that  horrid  trade 
Is  punishment  enough. 

[7b  the  Woman]  You  shall  have  justice  : 

111  the  Castle  there,  make  your  petition  ; 

This  is  not  the  place. 

Armgart.  No,  no!  I stir  not 

From  the  spot  till  you  give  up  my  husband ! 

’Tis  the  sixth  month  he  has  Jain  i’  th’  dungeon, 

Waiting  for  the  sentence  of  some  judge,  in  vain. 

Gessler.  Woman  ! Would’st  lay  hands  on  me  ? Begone  ! 

Armgart.  Justice,  Landvogt ! thou  art  judge  o’  th’  laud  here, 

I’  th’  Kaiser’s  stead  and  God’s.  Perform  thy  duty  ! 

As  thou  expectest  justice  from  above, 

Show  it  to  us. 

Gessler.  Off!  Take  the  mutinous  rabble 
From  my  sight. 

Armgart  [ catches  the  bridle  of  the  horse]. 

No,  no  ! I now  have  nothing 
More  to  lose.  Thou  shalt  not  move  a step,  Vogt, 

Till  thou  hast  done  me  right.  Ay,  knit  thy  brows, 

And  roll  thy  eyes  as  sternly  as  thou  wilt  ; 

We  are  so  wretched,  wretched  now,  we  care  not 
Aught  more  for  thy  anger. 

Gessler.  Woman,  make  way  ! 

Or  else  my  horse  shall  crush  thee. 

Armgart.  Let  it ! there — 

[<S7i«  pulls  her  children  to  the  ground,  and  throws  herself  along 
with  them  in  his  way. 

Here  am  I with  my  children  : let  the  orphans 
Bo  trodden  underneath  thy  horse’s  hoofs  ! 

’Tis  not  the  worst  that  thou  hast  done. 

Rudolph.  Woman  ! Art’  mad  ? 


182 


THE  LIFE  OF  FEIED RICH  SCHILLER. 


Armgart  [ with  stiU  greater  violence]. 

’Tis  long  tliat  thou  hast  trodden 
The  Kaiser’s  people  under  foot.  Too  long! 

O,  I am  but  a woman  ; were  I a man, 

I should  find  something  else  to  do  than  lie 
Here  crying  in  the  dust. 

[The  music  of  the  Wedding  is  heard  again,  ad  the  top  of  the  Pass, 
but  softened  by  distance. . 

Gessler.  Where  are  my  servants  ? 

Quick ! Take  her  hence  ! I may  forget  myself, 

And  do  the  thing  I shall  repent. 

Rudolph.  My  lord, 

The  servants  cannot  pass  ; the  place  above 
Is  crowded  by  a bridal  company. 

Gessler.  I’ve  been  too  mild  a ruler  to  this  people  ; 

They  are  not  tamed  as  they  should  he  ; their  tongues 
Are  still  at  liberty.  This  shall  be  alter’d  ! 

I will  break  that  stubborn  humour  ; Freedom 
With  its  pert  vauntings  shall  no.  more  be  heard  of : 

I will  enforce  a new  law  in  these  lands  ; 

There  shall  not — 

[An  arrow  pierces  him ; he  daps  Ms  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
is  about  to  sink.  With  a faint  voice 
God  be  merciful  to  me  ! 

Rudolph.  Herr  Landvogt — God ! What  is  it  ? Whence  came  it  ? 
Armgart  [springing  up] . 

Dead  ! dead  ! He  totters,  sinks  ! ’T  has  hit  him  ! 

Rudolph  [springs  from  his  horse]. 

Horrible  ! — O God  of  Heaven  ! — Herr  Ritter, 

Cry  to  God  for  mercy  ! T ou  are  dying. 

Gessler.  ’Tis  Tell’s  arrow. 

[Has  slid  down  from  his  horse  into  Rudolph’s  arms,  who  sets  him 
on  the  stone  bench. 

Tell  [appears  above,  on  the  point  of  the  rock]. 

Thou  hast  found  the  archer  ; 

Seek  no  other.  Free  are  the  cottages, 

Secure  is  innocence  from  thee  ; thou  wilt 
Torment  the  land  no  more. 

[Disappears  from  the  height.  The  people  rush  in. 
Stussi  [foremost].  What  ? What  has  happen’d  ? 

Armgart.  The  Landvogt  shot,  kill’d  by  an  arrow. 

People  [rushing  in].  Who  ? 

Who  is  shot  ? 

[ Whilst  the  foremost  of  the  Wedding  company  enter  on  the  Scene, 
the  hindmost  are  stiU  on  the  height,  and  the  music  continues 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


183 


Rudolph.  He’s  bleeding,  bleeding  to  death. 

Away  ! Seek  help  ; pursue  the  murderer  ! 

Lost  man  ! Must  it  so  end  with  thee  ? Thou  wouldst  not 
Hear  my  warning ! 

Stussi  Sure  enough ! There  lies  he 

Pale  and  going  fast. 

Many  Voices.  Who  was  it  killed  him  ? 

Rudolph.  Are  the  people  mad,  that  they  make  music 
Over  murder  ? Stop  it,  I say  ! 

[The  music  ceases  suddenly  ; more  people  come  crowding  round. 
Herr  Landvogt, 

Can  you  not  speak  to  me  ? Is  there  nothing 
You  would  entrust  me  with  ? 

[Gessler  makes  signs  with  his  hand , and  vehemently  repeats  them, 
as  they  are  not  understood. 

Where  shall  I run  ? 

To  Kiissnacht ! I cannot  understand  you  : 

O,  grow  not  angry  ! Leave  the  things  of  Earth, 

And  think  how  you  shall  make  your  peace  with  Heaven  ! 

[The  whole  bridal  company  surround  the  dying  man  with  an  ex- 
pression of  unsympathising  horror. 

Stussi.  Look  there!  How  pale  he  grows ! Now!  Death  is  coming 
Round  his  heart : his  eyes  grow  dim  and  fixed. 

Armgart  [lifts  up  one  of  her  children]. 

See,  children,  how  a miscreant  departs  ! 

Rudolph.  Out  on  you,  crazy  hags  ! Have  ye  no  touch 
Of  feeling  in  you,  that  ye  feast  your  eyes 
On  such  an  object  ? Help  me,  lend  your  hands! 

Will  no  one  help  to  pull  the  tort’ring  arrow 
From  his  breast  ? 

Women  [ start  back].  We  touch  him  whom  God  has  smote  ! 

Rudolph.  My  curse  upon  you  ! [Draws  his  sword, 

Stussi  [Jays  his  hand  on  Rudolph's  arm]. 

Softly,  my  good  Sir  ! 

Your  government  is  at  an  end.  The  Tyrant 
Is  fallen  : we  will  endure  no  farther  violence  : 

We  are  free. 

All  [tumultuously].  The  land  is  free  ! 

Rudolph.  Ha ! runs  it  so  ? 

Are  rev’rence  and  obedience  gone  already  ? 

[To  the  armed  Attendants , who  press  in. 
You  see  the  murd’rous  deed  that  has  been  done. 

Our  help  is  vain,  vain  to  pursue  the  murd’rer  ; 

Other  cares  demand  us.  On  ! To  Kiissnacht ! 

To  save  the  Kaiser’s  fortress  ! For  at  present 


184  THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


All  bonds  of  order,  duty,  are  unloosed, 

No  man's  fidelity  is  to  be  trusted. 

[ Whilst  he  departs  with  the  Attendants,  apypear  six 
Fratres  Misericordiae. 

ArmgART.  Room  ! Room  ! Here  come  the  Friars  of  Mercy. 

Stussi.  The  victim  slain,  the  ravens  are  assembling  ! 

Fratres  Misericordle  [form  a half -circle  round  the  dead  body,  and 
sing  in  a deep  tone\ 

With  noiseless  tread  death  comes  on  man, 

No  plea,  no  prayer  delivers  him  ; 

From  midst  of  busy  life’s  unfinished  plan, 

With  sudden  hand,  it  severs  him : 

And  ready  or  not  ready,- — no  delay, 

Forth  to  his  Judge’s  bar  he  must  away ! 

The  death  of  Gessler,  which  forms  the  leading  object  of 
the  plot,  happens  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act ; the  fifth,  oc- 
cupied with  representing  the  expulsion  of  his  satellites,  and 
the  final  triumph  and  liberation  of  the  Swiss,  though  diversi- 
fied with  occurrences  and  spectacles,  moves  on  with  inferior 
animation.  A certain  want  of  unity  is,  indeed,  distinctly  felt 
throughout  all  the  piece  ; the  incidents  do  not  point  one  way  ; 
there  is  no  connexion,  or  a very  slight  one,  between  the  en- 
terprise of  Tell  and  that  of  the  men  of  Biitli.  This  is  the 
principal,  or  rather  sole,  deficiency  of  the  present  work  ; a de- 
ficiency inseparable  from  the  faithful  display  of  the  historical 
event,  and  far  more  than  compensated  by  the  deeper  interest 
and  the  wider  range  of  action  and  delineation,  which  a strict 
adherence  to  the  facts  allows.  By  the  present  mode  of  man- 
agement, Alpine  life  in  all  its  length  and  breadth  is  placed 
before  us  : from  the  feudal  halls  of  Attinghausen  to  Buodi  the 
Fisher  of  the  Luzerne  Lake,  and  Armgart, — 

The  poor  wild-hay-man  of  the  Rigiberg, 

Whose  trade  is,  on  the  brow  of  the  abyss, 

To  mow  the  common  grass  from  craggy  shelves 
And  nooks  to  which  the  cattle  dare  not  climb, — 

we  stand  as  if  in  presence  of  the  Swiss,  beholding  the  achieve- 
ment of  their  freedom  in  its  minutest  circumstances,  with  all 
its  simplicity  and  unaffected  greatness.  The  light  of  the 


SCHILLER  A T WEIMAR. 


185 


poet’s  genius  is  upon  the  Four  Forest  Cantons,  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  Fourteenth  Century  : the  whole  time  and  scene 
shine  as  with  the  brightness,  the  truth,  and  more  than  the 
beauty,  of  reality. 

The  tragedy  of  Tell  wants  unity  of  interest  and  of  action  ; 
but  in  spite  of  this,  it  may  justly  claim  the  high  dignity  of 
ranking  with  the  very  best  of  Schiller’s  plays.  Less  compre- 
hensive and  ambitious  than  Wallenstein,  less  ethereal  than 
the  Jungfrau,  it  has  a look  of  nature  and  substantial  truth, 
which  neither  of  its  rivals  can  boast  of.  The  feelings  it  incul- 
cates and  appeals  to  are  those  of  universal  human  nature,  and 
presented  in  their  purest,  most  unpretending  form.  There 
is  no  high-wrought  sentiment,  no  poetic  love.  Tell  loves 
his  wife  as  honest  men  love  their  wives  ; and  the  episode 
of  Bertha  and  Budenz,  though  beautiful,  is  very  brief,  and 
without  effect  on  the  general  result.  It  is  delightful  and 
salutary  to  the  heart  to  wander  among  the  scenes  of  Tell : all 
is  lovely,  yet  all  is  real.  Physical  and  moral  grandeur  are 
united  ; yet  both  are  the  unadorned  grandeur  of  Nature. 
There  are  the  lakes  and  green  valleys  beside  us,  the  Schreck- 
horn,  the ' Jungfrau,  and  their  sister  peaks,  with  their  ava- 
lanches and  their  palaces  of  ice,  all  glowing  in  the  southern 
sun  ■;  and  dwelling  among  them  are  a race  of  manly  husband- 
men, heroic  without  ceasing  to  be  homely,  poetical  without 
ceasing  to  be  genuine. 

"VVe  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  this  play,  not  only  on  account 
of  its  peculiar  fascinations,  but  also — as  it  is  our  last  ! Schil- 
ler’s faculties  had  never  been  more  brilliant  than  at  present : 
strong  in  mature  age,  in  rare  and  varied  accomplishments,  he 
was  now  reaping  the  full  fruit  of  his  studious  vigils  ; the  ra- 
pidity with  which  he  wrote  such  noble  poems,  at  once  be- 
tokened the  exuberant  riches  of  his  mind  and  the  prompt 
command  wdtich  he  enjoyed  of  them.  Still  all  that  he  had 
done  seemed  but  a fraction  of  his  •appointed  task  : a bold  im- 
agination was  carrying  him  forward  into  distant  untouched 
fields  of  thought  and  poetry,  where  triumphs  yet  more  glori- 
ous were  to  be  gained.  Schemes  of  new  writings,  new  kinds 


1S6 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


of  writing,  were  budding  in  bis  fancy  ; he  was  yet,  as  he  had 
ever  been,  surrounded  by  a multitude  of  projects,  and  full  of 
ardour  to  labour  in  fulfilling  them.  But  Schiller’s  labours 
and  triumphs  were  drawing  to  a close.  The  invisible  Messen- 
ger was  already  near,  which  overtakes  alike  the  busy  and  the 
idle,  which  arrests  man  in  the  midst  of  his  pleasures  or  his 
occupations,  and  changes  his  countenance  and  sends  him  away. 

In  1804,  having  been  at  Berlin  witnessing  the  exhibition  of 
his  Wilhelm  Tell,  he  was  seized,  while  returning,  with  a parox- 
ysm of  that  malady  which  for  many  years  had  never  wholly 
left  him.  The  attack  was  fierce  and  violent ; it  brought  him 
to  the  verge  of  the  grave ; but  he  escaped  once  more  ; was  con- 
sidered out  of  danger,  and  again  resumed  his  poetical  employ- 
ments. Besides  various  translations  from  the  French  and  Ital- 
ian, he  had  sketched  a tragedy  on  the  history  of  Perkin  War- 
beck,  and  finished  two  acts  of  one  on  that  of  a kindred  but 
more  fortunate  impostor,  Dimitri  of  Russia.  His  mind,  it 
would  appear,  was  also  frequently  engaged  with  more  solemn 
and  sublime  ideas.  The  universe  of  human  thought  he  had 
now  explored  and  enjoyed  ; but  he  seems  to  have  found  no 
permanent  contentment  in  any  of  its  provinces.  Many  of  his 
later  poems  indicate  an  incessant  and  increasing  longing  for 
some  solution  of  the  mystery  of  life  ; at  times  it  is  a gloomy 
resignation  to  the  wTant  and  the  despair  of  any.  His  ardent 
spirit  could  not  satisfy  itself  with  things  seen,  though  gilded 
with  all  the  glories  of  intellect  and  imagination  ; it  soared  away 
in  search  of  other  lands,  looking  with  unutterable  desire  for 
some  surer  and  brighter  home  beyond  the  horizon  of  this 
world.  Death  he  had  no  reason  to  regard  as  probably  a near 
event ; but  we  easily  perceive  that  the  awful  secrets  connected 
with  it  had  long  been  familiar  to  his  contemplation.  The  veil 
which  hid  them  from  his  eyes  was  now  shortly,  when  he  looked 
not  for  it,  to  be  rent  asunder. 

The  spring  of  1805,  which  Schiller  had  anticipated  with  no 
ordinary  hopes  of  enjoyment  and  activity,  came  on  in  its  course, 
cold,  bleak,  and  stormy  ; and  along  with  it  his  sickness  re- 
turned. The  help  of  physicians  was  vain  ; the  unwearied  ser- 
vices of  trembling  affection  were  vain  : his  disorder  kept  in- 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


187 


creasing  ; on  the  9th  of  May  it  reached  a crisis.  Early  in  the 
morning  of  that  day  he  grew  insensible,  and  by  degrees  delir- 
ious. Among  his  expressions,  the  word  Lichtenberg  was  fre- 
quently noticed  ; a word  of  no  import  ; indicating,  as  some 
thought,  the  writer  of  that  name,  whose  works  he  had  lately 
been  reading  ; according  to  others  the  castle  of  Leuchtenberg-, 
which,  a few  days  before  his  sickness,  he  had  been  proposing 
to  visit.  The  poet  and  the  sage  was  soon  to  lie  low ; but  his 
friends  were  spared  the  farther  pain  of  seeing  him  depart  in 
madness.  The  fiery  canopy  of  physical  suffering,  which  had 
bewildered  and  blinded  his  thinking  faculties,  was  drawn 
aside  ; and  the  spirit  of  Schiller  looked  forth  in  its  wonted  se- 
renity, once  again  before  it  passed  away  forever.  After  noon 
his  delirium  abated  ; about  four'  o’clock  he  fell  into  a soft  sleep, 
from  which  he  ere  long  awoke  in  full  possession  of  his  senses. 
Restored  to  consciousness  in  that  hour,  when  the  soul  is  cut 
off  from  human  help,  and  man  must  front  the  King  of  Terrors 
on  his  own  strength,  Schiller  did  not  faint  or  fail  in  this  his  last 
and  sharpest  trial.  Feeling  that  his  end  was  come,  he  ad- 
dressed himself  to  meet  it  as  became  him  ; not  with  affected 
carelessness  or  superstitious  fear, but  with  the  quiet  unpretend- 
ing manliness  which  had  marked  the  tenor  of  his  life.  Of  his 
friends  and  family  he  took  a touching  but  a tranquil  farewell : 
he  ordered  that  his  funeral  should  be  private,  without  pomp 
or  parade.  Some  one  inquiring  how  he  felt,  he  said  “ Calmer 
and  calmer  ; ” simple  but  memorable  words,  expressive  of  the 
mild  heroism  of  the  man.  About  six  he  sank  into  a deep  sleep  ; 
once  for  a moment  he  looked  up  "with  a lively  air,  and  said, 
“ Many  things  were  growing  plain  and  clear  to  him  ! ” Again  he 
closed  his  eyes  ; and  his  sleep  deepened  and  deepened,  till  it 
changed  into  the  sleep  from  which  there  is  no  awakening  ; 
and  all  that  remained  of  Schiller  was  a lifeless  form,  soon  to 
be  mingled  with  the  clods  of  the  valley. 

The  news  of  Schiller’s  death  fell  cold  on  many  a heart  : not 
in  Germany  alone,  but  over  Europe,  it  was  regarded  as  a pub- 
lic loss,  by  all  who  understood  its  meaning.  In  Weimar  espe- 
cially, the  scene  of  his  noblest  efforts,  the  abode  of  his  chosen 


1S8 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


friends,  the  sensation  it  produced  was  deep  and  universal.  The 
public  places  of  amusement  were  shut ; all  ranks  made  haste 
to  testify  their  feelings,  to  honour  themselves  and  the  deceased 
by  tributes  to  his  memory.  It  was  Friday  when  Schiller  died  ; 
his  funeral  was  meant  to  be  on  Sunday  ; but  the  state  of  his 
remains  made  it  necesssary  to  proceed  before.  Doering  thus 
describes  the  ceremony  : 

‘According  to  his  own  directions,  the  bier  was  to  be  borne 
by  private  burghers  of  the  city  ; but  several  young  artists  and 
students,  out  of  reverence  for  the  deceased,  took  it  from  them. 
It  was  between  midnight  and  one  in  the  morning,  when  they 
approached  the  churchyard.  The  overclouded  heaven  threat- 
ened rain.  But  as  the  bier  was  set  down  beside  the  grave,  the 
clouds  suddenly  split  asunder,  and  the  moon,  coming  forth  in 
peaceful  clearness,  threw  her  first  rays  on  the  coffin  of  the  de- 
parted. They  lowered  him  into  the  grave  ; and  the  moon 
again  retired  behind  her  clouds.  A fierce  tempest  of  wind 
began  to  howl,  as  if  it  were  reminding  the  bystanders  of  their 
great,  irreparable  loss.  At  this  moment  who  could  have  applied 
without  emotion  the  poet’s  own  words  : 


* Alas,  tb£  ruddy  morning  tinges 
A silent,  cold,  sepulchral  stone  ; 

And  evening  throws  her  crimson  fringes 
But  round  his  slumber  dark  and  lone  !’ 


So  lived  and  so  died  Friedrich  Schiller  ; a man  on  whose 
history  other  men  will  long  dwell  with  a mingled  feeling  of 
reverence  and  love.  Our  humble  record  of  his  life  and  writ- 
ings is  drawing  to  an  end : yet  we  still  linger,  loth  to  part 
with  a spirit  so  dear  to  us.  From  the  scanty  and  too  much 
neglected  field  of  his  biography,  a few  slight  facts  and  indi- 
cations may  still  be  gleaned  ; slight,  but  distinctive  of  him  as 
an  individual,  and  not  to  be  despised  in  a penury  so  great 
and  so  unmerited. 

Schiller’s  age  was  forty-five  years  and  a few  months  when 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


189 


he  died.*  Sickness  had  long  wasted  his  form,  which  at  no 
time  could  boast  of  faultless  symmetry.  He  was  tall  and 
strongly  boned  ; but  unmuscular  and  lean  : his  body,  it  might 
be  perceived,  was  wasting  under  the  energy  of  a spirit  too 
keen  for  it.  His  face  was  pale,  the  cheeks  and  temples  rather 
hollow,  the  chin  somewhat  deep  and  slightly  projecting,  the 
nose  irregularly  aquiline,  his  hair  inclined  to  auburn.  Withal 
his  countenance  was  attractive,  and  had  a certain  manly 
beauty.  The  lips  were  curved  together  in  a line,  expressing 
delicate  and  honest  sensibility  ; a silent  enthusiasm,  impetu- 
osity not  unchecked  by  melancholy,  gleamed  in  his  softly 
kindled  eyes  and  pale  cheeks,  and  the  brow  was  high  and 
thoughtful.  To  judge  from  his  portraits,  Schiller’s  face  ex- 
pressed well  the  features  of  his  mind  : it  is  mildness  tem- 
pering strength  ; fiery  ardour  shining  through  the  clouds 
of  suffering  and  disappointment,  deep  but  patiently  endured. 
Pale  was  its  proper  tint  ; the  cheeks  and  temples  were  best 
hollow.  There  are  few  faces  that  affect  us  more  than  Schil- 
ler’s ; it  is  at  once  meek,  tender,  unpretending,  and  heroic. 

In  his  dress  and  manner,  as  in  all  things,  he  was  plain  and 
unaffected.  Among  strangers,  something  shy  and  retiring 
might  occasionally  be  observed  in  him  : in  his  own  family,  or 
among  his  select  friends,  he  was  kind-hearted,  free,  and  gay 
as  a little  child.  In  public,  his  external  appearance  had 
nothing  in  it  to  strike  or  attract.  Of  an  un presuming  aspect, 
wearing  plain  apparel,  his  looks  as  he  walked  were  constantly 
bent  on  the  ground  ; so  that  frequently,  as  we  are  told,  ‘ he 
failed  to  notice  the  salutation  of  a passing  acquaintance  ; but 
if  he  heard  it,  he  would  catch  hastily  at  his  hat,  and  give  his 
cordial  “ Guten  Tag.’”  Modesty,  simplicity,  a total  want  of 
all  parade  or  affectation  were  conspicuous  in  him.  These  are 
the  usual  concomitants  of  true  greatness,  and  serve  to  miti- 
gate its  splendour.  Common  things  he  did  as  a common 

* ‘ He  left  a widow,  two  sons,  and  two  daughters,  ’ of  whom  we  regret 
to  say  that  we  have  learned  nothing.  ‘ Of  his  three  sisters,  the  youngest 
died  before  him  ; the  eldest  is  married  to  the  Hofratli  Reinwald,  in 
Meinungen  ; the  second  to  Herr  Frankh,  the  clergyman  of  Meckmahl, 
in  Wurtemburg.  ’ Doering. 


190 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


man.  His  conduct  in  such  matters  was.  uncalculated,  spon- 
taneous ; and  therefore  natural  and  pleasing. 

Concerning  his  mental  character,  the  greater  part  of  what 
we  had  to  say  has  been  already  said,  in  speaking  of  his  works. 
The  most  cursory  perusal  of  these  will  satisfy  us  that  he  had 
a mind  of  the  highest  order  ; grand  by  nature,  and  cultivated 
by  the  assiduous  study  of  a lifetime.  It  is  not  the  predomi- 
nating force  of  any  one  faculty  that  impresses  us  in  Schiller  ; 
but  the  general  force  of  all.  Every  page  of  his  writings  bears 
the  stamp  of  internal  vigour ; new  truths,  new  aspects  of 
known  truth,  bold  thought,  happy  imagery,  lofty  emotion. 
Schiller  would  have  been  no  common  man,  though  he  had  al- 
together wanted  the  qualities  peculiar  to  poets.  His  intellect 
is  clear,  deep,  and  comprehensive ; its  deductions,  frequently 
elicited  from  numerous  and  distant  premises,  are  presented 
under  a magnificent  aspect,  in  the  shape  of  theorems,  em- 
bracing an  immense  multitude  of  minor  propositions.  ' Yet 
it  seems  powerful  and  vast,  rather  than  quick  or  keen ; 
for  Schiller  is  not  notable  for  wit,  though  his  fancy  is  ever 
prompt  with  its  metaphors,  illustrations,  comparisons  to  deco- 
rate and  point  the  perceptions  of  his  reasou  The  earnestness 
of  his  temper  farther  disqualified  him  for  this  : his  tendency 
was  rather  to  adore  the  grand  and  the  lofty  than  to  despise 
the  little  aud  the  mean.  Perhaps  his  greatest  faculty  was  a 
half-poetical,  half-philosophical  imagination : a faculty  teem- 
ing with  magnificence  and  brilliancy  ; now  adorning,  or  aid- 
ing to  erect,  a stately  pyramid  of  scientific  speculation  ; now 
brooding  over  the  abysses  of  thought  and  feeling,  till  thoughts 
and  feelings,  else  unutterable,  were  embodied  in  expressive 
forms,  and  palaces  and  landscapes  glowing  in  ethereal  beauty 
rose  like  exhalations  from  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

Combined  and  partly  of  kindred  with  these  intellectual  fac- 
ulties was  that  vehemence  of  temperament  which  is  necessary 
for  their  full  development.  Schiller's  heart  was  at  once  fiery 
and  tender ; impetuous,  soft,  affectionate,  his  enthusiasm 
clothed  the  universe  with  grandeur,  and  sent  his  spirit  forth 
to  explore  its  secrets  and  mingle  warmly  in  its  interests. 
Thus  poetry  in  Schiller  was  not  one  but  many  gifts.  It  was 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


191 


not  the  ‘ lean  and  flashy  song  ’ of  an  ear  apt  for  harmony,  com- 
bined with  a maudlin  sensibility,  or  a mere  animal  ferocity  of 
passion,  and  an  imagination  creative  chiefly  because  unbridled  : 
it  was,  what  true  poetry  is  always,  the  quintessence  of  general 
mental  riches,  the  purified  result  of  strong  thought  and  con- 
ception, and  of  refined  as  well  as  powerful  emotion.  In  his 
writings,  we  behold  him  a moralist,  a philosopher,  a man  of 
universal  knowledge  : in  each  of  these  capacities  he  is  great, 
but  also  in  more  ; for  all  that  he  achieves  in  these  is  bright- 
ened and  gilded  with  the  touch  of  another  quality  ; his  max- 
ims, his  feelings,  his  opinions  are  transformed  from  the  hfeless 
shape  of  didactic  truths,  into  living  shapes  that  address  facul- 
ties far  finer  than  the  understanding. 

The  gifts  by  which  such  transformation  is  effected,  the  gift  of 
pure,  ardent,  tender  sensibility,  joined  to  those  of  fancy  and 
imagination,  are  perhaps  not  wholly  denied  to  any  man  en- 
dowed with  the  power  of  reason  ; possessed  in  various  degrees 
of  strength,  they  add  to  the  products  of  mere  intellect  cor- 
responding tints  of  new  attractiveness  ; in  a degree  great 
enough, to  be  remarkable  they  constitute  a poet.  Of  this  pe- 
culiar faculty  how  much  had  fallen  to  Schiller’s  lot,  we  need 
not  attempt  too  minutely  to  explain.  Without  injuring  his 
reputation,  it  may  be  admitted  that,  in  general,  his  works  ex- 
hibit rather  extraordinary  strength  than  extraordinary  fineness 
or  versatility.  His  power  of  dramatic  imitation  is  perhaps 
never  of  the  very  highest,  the  Shakspearean  kind  ; and  in  its 
best  state,  it  is  farther  limited  to  a certain  range  of  characters. 
It  is  with  the  grave,  the  earnest,  the  exalted,  the  affectionate, 
the  mournful,  that  he  succeeds  : he  is  not  destitute  of  humour, 
as  his  Wallenstein' s Camp  will  show,  but  neither  is  he  rich  hi 
it ; and  for  sprightly  ridicule  in  any  of  its  forms  he  has  sel- 
dom shown  either  taste  or  talent.  Chance  principally  made 
the  drama  his  department  ; he  might  have  shone  equally  in 
many  others.  The  vigorous  and  copious  invention,  the  knowl- 
edge of  life,  of  men  and  things,  displayed  in  his  theatrical 
pieces,  might  have  been  available  in  very  different  pursuits  ; 
frequently  the  charm  of  his  works  has  little  to  distinguish  it 
from  the  charm  of  intellectual  and  moral  force  in  general ; it 


192 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


is  often  the  capacious  thought,  the  vivid  imagery,  the  impetu- 
ous feeling  of  the  orator,  rather  than  the  wild  pathos  and  ca- 
pricious enchantment  of  the  poet.  Yet  that  he  was  capable 
of  rising  to  the  loftiest  regions  of  poetry,  no  reader  of  his 
Maid  of  Orelans,  his  character  of  Thekla,  or  many  other  of  his 
pieces,  will  hesitate  to  grant.  Sometimes  we  suspect  that  it 
is  the  very  grandeur  of  his  general  powers  which  prevents  us 
from  exclusively  admiring  his  poetic  genius.  We  are  not 
lulled  by  the  syren  song  of  poetry,  because  her  melodies  are 
blended  with  the  clearer,  manlier  tones  of  serious  reason,  and 
of  honest  though  exalted  feeling. 

Much  laborious  discussion  has  been  wasted  in  defining 
genius,  particularly  by  the  countrymen  of  Schiller,  some  of 
whom  have  narrowed  the  conditions  of  the  term  so  far,  as  to 
find  but  three  men  of  genius  since  the  world  was  created  : 
Homer,  Shakspeare,  and  Goethe  ! From  such  rigid  precision, 
applied  to  a matter  in  itself  indefinite,  there  may  be  an  appar- 
ent, but  there  is  no  real,  increase  of  accuracy.  The  creative 
power,  the  faculty  not  only  of  imitating  given  forms  of  being, 
but  of  imagining  and  representing  new  ones,  which  is  here 
attributed  with  such  distinctness  and  so  sparingly,  has  been 
given  by  nature  in  complete  perfection  to  no  man,  nor  entirely 
denied  to  any.  The  shades  of  it  cannot  be  distinguished  by 
so  loose  a scale  as  language.  A definition  of  genius  which 
excludes  such  a mind  as  Schiller’s  will  scarcely  be  agreeable 
to  philosophical  correctness,  and  it  will  tend  rather  to  lower 
than  to  exalt  the  dignity  of.  the  word.  Possessing  all  the 
general  mental  faculties  in  their  highest  degree  of  strength, 
an  intellect  ever  active,  vast,  powerful,  far-sighted  ; an  imagi- 
nation never  weary  of  producing  grand  or  beautiful  forms  ; a 
heart  of  the  noblest  temper,  sympathies  comprehensive  yet 
ardent,  feelings  vehement,  impetuous,  yet  full  of  love  and  kind- 
liness and  tender  pity  ; conscious  of  the  rapid  and  fervid  ex- 
ercise of  all  these  powers  within  him,  and  able  farther  to  pre- 
sent their  products  refined  and  harmonised,  and  c married  to 
immortal  verse,’  Schiller  may  or  may  not  be  called  a man  of 
genius  by  his  critics  ; but  his  mind  in  either  case  will  remain  one 
of  the  most  enviable  which  can  fall  to  the  share  of  a mortal 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


103 


In  a poet  worthy  of  that  name,  the  powers  of  the  intellect 
are  indissolubly  interwoven  with  the  moral  feelings  ; and  the 
exercise  of  his  art  depends  not  more  on  the  perfection  of  the 
one  than  of  the  other.  The  poet,  who  does  not  feel  nobly  and 
justly,  as  wrell  as  passionately,  will  never  permanently  succeed 
in  making  others  feel : the  forms  of  error  and  falseness,  infinite 
in  number,  are  transitory  in  duration  ; truth,  of  thought  and 
sentiment,  but  chiefly  of  sentiment,  truth  alone  is  eternal  and 
unchangeable.  But,  happily’  a delight  in  the  products  of  reason 
and  imagination  can  scarcely  ever  be  divided  from,  at  least, 
a love  for  virtue  and  genuine  greatness.  Our  feelings  are  in 
favour  of  heroism  ; we  ivish  to  be  pure  and  perfect.  Happy 
he  whose  resolutions  are  so  strong,  or  whose  temptations  are 
so  weak,  that  he  can  convert  these  feelings  into  action  ! The 
severest  pang,  of  which  a proud  and  sensitive  nature  can  be 
conscious,  is  the  perception  of  its  own  debasement.  The 
sources  of  misery  in  life  are  many  : vice  is  one  of  the  surest. 
Any  human  creature,  tarnished  with  gilt,  will  in  general  be 
wretched  ; a man  of  genius  in  that  case  will  be  doubly  so,  for 
his  ideas  of  excellence  are  higher,  his  sense  of  failure  is  more 
keen.  In  such  miseries,  Schiller  had  no  share.  The  senti- 
ments, which  animated  his  poetry,  were  converted  into  prin- 
ciples of  conduct ; his  actions  were  as  blameless  as  his  writings 
were  pure.  With  his  simple  and  high  predilections,  with  his 
strong  devotedness  to  a noble  cause,  he  contrived  to  steer 
through  life,  unsullied  by  its  meanness,  unsubdued  by  any  of 
its  difficulties  or  allurements.  With  the  world,  in  fact,  he  had 
not  much  to  do  ; without  effort,  he  dwelt  apart  from  it ; its 
prizes  were  not  the  wealth  which  could  enrich  him.  His  great, 
almost  his  single  aim,  was  to  unfold  his  spiritual  faculties,  to 
study  and  contemplate  and  improve  their  intellectual  creations. 
Bent  upon  this,  with  the  steadfastness  of  an  apostle,  the  more 
sordid  temptations  of  the  world  passed  harmlessly  over  him. 
Wishing  not  to  seem,  but  to  be,  envy  was  a feeling  of  which  he 
knew  but  little,  even  before  he  rose  above  its  level.  Wealth 
or  rank  he  regarded  as  a means,  not  an  end  ; his  own  humble 
fortune  supplying  him  with  all  the  essential  conveniences  of 
life,  the  world  had  nothing  more  that  he  chose  to  covet,  noth- 
13 


194 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


ing  more  that  it  could  give  him.  He  was  not  rich  ; but  his 
habits  were  simple,  and,  except  by  reason  of  his  sickness  and 
its  consequences,  un  expensive.  At  all  times  he  was  far  above 
the  meanness  of  self-interest,  particularly  in  its  meanest  shape, 
a love  of  money.  Doering  tells  us,  that  a bookseller  having 
travelled  from  a distance  expressly  to  offer  him  a higher  price 
for  the  copyright  of  Wallenstein,  at  that  time  in  the  press,  and 
for  which  he  was  on  terms  with  Cotta  of  Tubingen,  Schiller 
answering,  “ Cotta  deals  steadily  with  me,  and  I with  him,” 
sent  away  this  new  merchant,  without  even  the  hope  of 
a future  bargain.  The  anecdote  is  small  ; but  it  seems  to 
paint  the  integrity  of  the  man,  careless  of  pecuniary  concerns 
in  comparison  with  the  strictest  uprightness  in  his  conduct. 
In  fact,  his  real  wealth  lay  in  being  able  to  pursue  his  dar- 
ling studies,  and  to  live  in  the  sunshine  of  friendship  and  do- 
mestic love.  This  he  had  always  loDged  for  ; this  he  at  last 
enjoyed.  And  though  sickness  and  many  vexations  annoyed 
him,  the  intrinsic  excellence  of  his  nature  chequered  the 
darkest  portions  of  their  gloom  with  an  effulgence  derived  from 
himself.  The  ardour  of  his  feelings,  tempered  by  benevolence, 
was  equable  and  placid  : his  temper,  though  overflowing  with 
generous  warmth,  seems  almost  never  to  have  shown  any 
hastiness  or  anger.  To  all  men  he  was  humane  and  sympa- 
thising ; among  his  friends,  open-hearted,  generous,  helpful ; 
in  the  circle  of  his  family,  kind,  tender,  sportive.  And  what 
gave  an  especial  charm  to  all  this  was,  the  unobtrusiveness 
with  which  it  was  attended  : there  was  no  parade,'  no  display, 
no  particle 'of  affectation  ; rating  and  conducting  himself  sim- 
ply as  an  honest  man  and  citizen,  he  became  greater  by  for- 
getting that  he  was  great. 

Such  were  the  prevailing  habits  of  Schiller.  That  in  the 
mild  and  beautiful  brilliancy  of  their  aspect  there  must  have 
been  some  specks  and  imperfections,  the  common  lot  of  poor 
humanity,  who  knows  not  ? That  these  were  small  and  tran- 
sient, we  judge  from  the  circumstance  that  scarcely  any  hint 
of  them  has  reached  us  : nor  are  we  anxious  to  obtain  a full 
description  of  them.  For  practical  uses,  we  can  sufficiently 
conjecture  what  they  were  ; and  the  heart  desires  not  to  dwell 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


195 


upon  them.  This  man  is  passed  away  from  our  dim  and  tar- 
nished world  : let  him  have  the  benefit  of  departed  friends  ; 
let  him  be  transfigured  in  our  thoughts,  and  shine  there  with- 
out the  little  blemishes  that  clung  to  him  in  life. 

Schiller  gives  a fine  example  of  the  German  character  : he 
has  all  its  good  qualities  in  a high  degree,  with  very  few  of  its 
defects.  We  trace  in  him  all  that  downrightness  and  sim- 
plicity, that  sincerity  of  heart  and  mind,  for  which  the  Ger- 
mans are  remarked  ; their  enthusiasm,  their  patient,  long-con- 
tinuing, earnest  devotedness  ; their  imagination,  delighting  in 
the  lofty  and  magnificent  ; their  intellect,  rising  into  refined 
abstractions,  stretching  itself  into  comprehensive  generalisa- 
tions. But  the  excesses  to  which  such  a character  is  liable 
are,  in  him,  prevented  by  a firm  and  watchful  sense  of  pro- 
priety. His  simplicity  never  degenerates  into  ineptitude  or 
insipidity  ; his  enthusiasm  must  be  based  on  reason  ; he  rarely 
suffers  his  love  of  the  vast  to  betray  him  into  toleration  of 
the  vague.  The  boy  Schiller  was  extravagant  ; but  the  man 
admits  no  bombast  in  his  style,  no  inflation  in  his  thoughts  or 
actions.  He  is  the  poet  of  truth  ; our  understandings  and 
consciences  are  satisfied,  while  our  hearts  and  imaginations 
are  moved.  His  fictions  are  emphatically  nature  copied  and 
embellished  ; his  sentiments  are  refined  and  touchingly  beau- 
tiful, but  they  are  likewise  manly  and  correct ; they  exalt  and 
inspire,  but  they  do  not  mislead.  Above  all,  he  has  no  cant  ; 
in  any  of  its  thousand  branches,  ridiculous  or  hateful,  none. 
He  does  not  distort  his  character  or  genius  into  shapes,  which 
he  thinks  more  becoming  than  their  natural  one  : he  does  not 
hang  out  principles  which  are  not  his,  or  harbour  beloved  per- 
suasions which  he  half  or  wholly  knows  to  be  false.  He  did 
not  often  speak  of  wholesome  prejudices  ; he  did  not  ‘ embrace 
the  Boman  Catholic  religion  because  it  was  the  grandest  and 
most  comfortable.’  Truth  with  Schiller,  or  what  seemed  such, 
was  an  indispensable  requisite  : if  he  but  suspected  an  opin- 
ion to  be  false,  however  dear  it  may  have  been,  he  seems  to 
have  examined  it  with  rigid  scrutiny,  and  if  he  found  it  guilty, 
to  have  plucked  it  out,  and  resolutely  cast  it  forth.  The  sac- 
rifice might  cause  him  pain,  permanent  pain  ; real  damage,  he 


196 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHULER. 


imagined,  it  could  hardly  cause  him.  It  is  irksome  and  dan- 
gerous to  travel  in  the  dark  ; hut  better  so,  than  with  an  Ignis- 
fatuus  to  guide  us.  Considering  the  warmth  of  his  sensibili- 
ties, Schiller’s  merit  on  this  point  is  greater  than  we  might  at 
first  suppose.  For  a man  with  whom  intellect  is  the  ruling 
or  exclusive  faculty,  whose  sympathies,  loves,  hatreds,  are  com- 
paratively coarse  and  dull,  it  may  be  easy  to  avoid  this  half- 
wilful  entertainment  of  error,  and  this  cant  which  is  the  con- 
sequence and  sign  of  it.  But  for  a man  of  keen  tastes,  a large 
fund  of  innate  probity  is  necessary  to  prevent  his  aping  the 
excellence  which  he  loves  so  much,  yet  is  unable  to  attain. 
Among  persons  of  the  latter  sort,  it  is  extremely  rare  to  meet 
with  one  completely  unaffected.  Schiller’s  other  noble  quali- 
ties would  not  have  justice,  did  we  neglect  to  notice  this,  the 
truest  proof  of  their  nobility.^  Honest,  unpretending,  manly 
simplicity  pervades  all  parts  of  his  character  and  genius  and 
habits  of  life.  "We  not  only  admire  him,  wre  trust  him  and 
love  him. 

‘The  character  of  child-like  simplicity,’  he  has  himself  ob- 
served,1 ‘which  genius  impresses  on  its  works,  it  shows  also 
in  its  private  life  and  manners.  It  is  bashful,  for  nature  is 
ever  so  ; but  it  is  not  prudish,  for  only  corruption  is  prudish. 
It  is  clear-sighted,  for  nature  can  never  be  the  contrary  ; but 
it  is  not  cunning,  for  this  only  art  can  be.  It  is  faithful  to  its 
character  and  inclinations  ; but  not  so  much  because  it  is  di- 
rected by  principles,  as  because  after  all  vibrations  nature 
constantly  reverts  to  her  original  position,  constantly  renews 
her  primitive  demand.  It  is  modest,  nay  timid,  for  genius  is 
always  a secret  to  itself  ; but  it  is  not  anxious,  for  it  knows 
not  the  dangers  of  the  way  which  it  travels.  Of  the  private 
habits  of  the  persons  who  have' been  peculiarly  distinguished 
by  their  genius,  our  information  is  small  ; but  the  little  that 
has  been  recorded  for  us  of  the  chief  of  them, — of  Sophocles, 
Archimedes,  Hippocrates  ; and  in  modern  times,  of  Dante  and 
Tasso,  of  Rafaelle,  Albrecht  Diirer,  Cervantes,  Shakspeare, 
Fielding,  and  others, — confirms  this  observation.’  Schiller 
himself  confirms  it  ; perhaps  more  strongly  than  most  of  the 
1 Naive  und  sentimentali&che  Dichtung . 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


197 


examples  here  adduced.  No  man  ever  wore  his  faculties  more 
meekly,  or  performed  great  works  with  less  consciousness  of 
their  greatness.  Abstracted  from  the  contemplation  of  him- 
self, his  eye  was  turned  upon  the  objects  of  his  labour,  and  he 
pursued  them  with  the  eagerness,  the  entireness,  the  sponta- 
neous sincerity,  of  a boy  pursuing  sport.  Hence  this  ‘ child- 
like simplicity,’  the  last  perfection  of  his  other  excellencies. 
His  was  a mighty  spirit  unheedful  of  its  might.  He  walked 
the  earth  in  calm  power  : ‘ the  staff  of  his  spear  was  like  a 
weaver’s  beam  ; ’ but  he  wielded  it  like  a wand. 

Such,  so  far  as  we  can  represent  it,  is  the  form  in  which 
Schiller’s  life  and  works  have  gradually  painted  their  character 
in  the  mind  of  a secluded  individual,  whose  solitude  he  has 
often  charmed,  whom  he  has  instructed,  and  cheered,  and 
moved.  The  original  impression,  we  know,  was  faint  and  in- 
adequate, the  present  copy  of  it  is  still  more  so  ; yet  we  have 
sketched  it  as  we  could : the  figure  of  Schiller,  and  the  fig- 
ures he  conceived  and  drew  are  there  ; himself,  ‘and  in  his  hand 
a glass  which  shows  us  many  more.  ’ To  those  who  look  on  him 
as  we  have  wished  to  make  them,  Schiller  will  not  need  a far- 
ther panegyric.  For  the  sake  of  Literature,  it  may  still  be  re- 
marked, that  his  merit  was  peculiarly  due  to  her.  Literature 
was  his  creed,  the  dictate  of  his  conscience  ; he  was  an  Apostle 
of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  and  this  his  calling  made  a hero 
of  him.  For  it  was  in  the  spirit  of  a true  man  that  he  viewed 
it,  and  undertook  to  cultivate  it ; and  its  inspirations  con- 
stantly maintained  the  noblest  temper  in  his  soul.  The  end 
of  Literature  was  not,  in  Schiller’s  judgment,  to  amuse  the 
idle,  or  to  recreate  the  busy,  by  showy  spectacles  for  the  im- 
agination, or  quaint  paradoxes  and  epigrammatic  disquisitions 
for  the  understanding  : least  of ' all  was  it  to  gratify  in  any 
shape  the  selfishness  of  its  professors,  to  minister  to  them  ma- 
lignity, their  love  of  money,  or  even  of  fame.  For  persons 
who  degrade  it  to  such  purposes,  the  deepest  contempt  of 
which  his  kindly  nature  could  admit  was  at  all  times  in  store. 
‘ Unhappy  mortal ! ’ says  he  to  the  literary  tradesman,  the  man 
who  writes  for  gain,  * Unhappy  mortal,  who  with  science  and 


198 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


art,  tlie  noblest  of  all  instruments,  effectest  and  attemptest 
nothing  more  than  the  day-drudge  'with  the  meanest ; -who,  in 
the  domain  of  perfect  Freedom,  bearest  about  in  thee  the 
spirit  of  Slave  ! ’ As  Schiller  viewed  it,  genuine  Literature  in- 
cludes the  essence  of  philosophy,  religion,  art  ; whatever 
speaks  to  the  immortal  part  of  man.  The  daughter,  she  is 
likewise  the  nurse  of  all  that  is  spiritual  and  exalted  in  our 
character.  The  boon  she  bestows  is  truth  ; truth  not  merely 
physical,  political,  economical,  such  as  the  sensual  man  iu  us 
is  perpetually  demanding,  ever  ready  to  reward,  and  likely  in 
general  to  find  ; but  truth  of  moral  feeling,  truth  of  taste,  that 
inward  truth  in  its  thousand  modifications,  which  only  the 
most  ethereal  portion  of  our  nature  can  discern,  but  without 
•which  that  portion  of  it  languishes  and  dies,  and  we  are  left 
divested  of  our  birthright,  thenceforward  ‘of  the  earth  earthy,’ 
machines  for  earning  and  enjoying,  no  longer  worthy  to  be 
called  the  Sons  of  Heaven.  The  treasures  of  Literature  are 
thus  celestial,  imperishable,  beyond  all  price  : with  her  is  the 
shrine  of  our  best  hopes,  the  palladium  of  pure  manhood  ; to 
be  among  the  guardians  and  servants  of  this  is  the  noblest 
function  that  can  be  intrusted  to  a mortal.  Genius,  even  in 
its  faintest  scintillations,  is  ‘ the  inspired  gift  of  God  ; 5 a sol- 
emn mandate  to  its  owner  to  go  forth  and  labour  in  his  sphere, 
to  keep  alive  * the  sacred  fire  ’ among  his  brethren,  which  the 
heavy  and  polluted  atmosphere  of  this  world  is  forever  threat- 
ening to  extinguish.  Woe  to  him  if  he  neglect  this  mandate,  if 
he  hear  not  its  small  still  voice ! Woe  to  him  if  he  turn  this  in- 
spired gift  into  the  servant  of  his  evil  or  ignoble  passions  ; if 
he  offer  it  on  the  altar  of  vanity,  if  he  sell  it  for  a piece  of 
money ! 

‘ The  Artist,  it  is  true,’  says  Schiller,  ‘ is  the  son  of  his  age  ; 
but  pity  for  him  if  he  is  its  pupil,  or  even  its  favourite  ! Let 
some  beneficent  Divinity  snatch  him  when  a suckling  from 
the  breast  of  his  mother,  and  nurse  him  with  the  milk  of  a 
better  time  ; that  he  may  ripen  to  his  full  stature  beneath  a 
distant  Grecian  sky.  And  having  grown  to  manhood,  let  him 
return,  a'  foreign  shape,  into  his  century  ; not,  however,  to  de- 
light it  by  his  presence  ; but  terrible,  like  the  son  of  Agamem- 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


199 


non,  to  purify  it.  The  Matter  of  liis  -works  lie  will  take  from 
the  present ; but  their  Form  he  will  derive  from  a nobler  time, 
nay  from  beyond  all  time,  from  the  absolute  unchanging 
unity  of  his  nature.  Here  from  the  pure  aether  of  his  spiritual 
essence,  flows  down  the  Fountain  of  Beauty,  uncontaminated 
by  the  pollutions  of  ages  and  generations,  which  roll  to  and 
fro  in  their  turbid  vortex  far  beneath  it.  His  Matter  caprice 
can  dishonour  as  she  has  ennobled  it ; but  the  chaste  Form  is 
withdrawn  from  her  mutations.  The  Roman  of  the  first  cen- 
tury had  long  bent  the  knee  before  his  Caesars,  when  the  stat- 
ues of  Rome  were  still  standing  erect ; the  temples  continued 
holy  to  the  eye,  when  their  gods  had  long  been  a laughing- 
stock ; and  the  abominations  of  a Nero  and  a Commodus  were 
silently  rebuked  by  the  style  of  the  edifice  which  lent  them  its 
concealment.  Man  has  lost  his  dignity,  but  Art  has  saved  it, 
and  preserved  it  for  him  in  expressive  marbles.  Truth  still 
lives  in  fiction,  and  from  the  copy  the  original  will  be  re- 
stored. 

1 But  how  is  the  Artist  to  guard  himself  from  the  corrup- 
tions of  his  time,  which  on  every  side  assail  him  ? By  despis- 
ing its  decisions.  Let  him  look  upwards  to  his  dignity  and 
his  mission,  not  downwards  to  his  happiness  and  his  wants. 
Free  alike  from  the  vain  activity,  that  longs  to  impress  its 
traces  on  the  fleeting  instant ; and  from  the  discontented 
spirit  of  enthusiasm,  that  measures  by  the  scale  of  perfection 
the  meagre  product  of  reality,  let  him  leave  to  common  sense, 
which  is  here  at  home,  the  province  of  the  actual ; while  he 
strives  from  the  union  of  the  possible  with  the  necessary  to 
bring  out  the  ideal.  This  let  him  imprint  and  express  in  fic- 
tion and  truth,  imprint  it  in  the  sport  of  his  imagination  and 
the  earnest  of  his  actions,  imprint  it  in  all  sensible  and  spirit- 
ual forms,  and  cast  it  silently  into  everlasting  Time.’  1 

Nor  were  these  sentiments,  be  it  remembered,  the  mere 
boasting  manifesto  of  a hot-brained  inexperienced  youth,  en- 
tering on  literature  with  feelings  of  heroic  ardour,  which  its 
difficulties  and  temptations  would  soon  deaden  or  pervert : 
they  are  the  calm  principles  of  a man,  expressed  with  honest 
1 Uber  die  cesthetische  Erzielumg  cles  Mcmchen. 


200 


TEE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  III  GE  SCE1LLER. 


manfulness,  at  a period  when  the  .world  could  compare  them 
with  a long  course  of  conduct.  In  this  just  and  lofty  spirit, 
Schiller  undertook  the  business  of  literature  ; in  the  same 
spirit  he  pursued  it  with  unflinching  energy  all  the  days  of 
his  life.  The  common,  and  some  uncommon,  difficulties  of 
a fluctuating  and  dependent  existence  could  not  quench  or 
abate  his  zeal : sickness  itself  seemed  hardly  to  affect  him. 
During  his  last  fifteen  years,  he  wrote  his  noblest  works; 
yet,  as  it  has  been  proved  too  'well,  no  day  of  that  period 
could  have  passed  without  its  load  of  pain.1  Pain  could  not 
turn  him  from  his  purpose,  or  shake  his  equanimity  : in  death 
itself  he  was  calmer  and  calmer.  Nor  has  he  gone  without  his 
recompense.  To  the  credit  of  the  world  it  can  be  recorded, 
that  their  suffrages,  which  he  never  courted,  were  liberally  be- 
stowed on  him  : happier  than  the  mighty  Milton,  he  found 
‘fit  hearers,’  even  in  his  lifetime,  and  they  were  not  ‘few-.’ 
His  effect  on  the  mind  of  his  own  country  has  been  deep  and 
universal,  and  bids  fair  to  be  abiding  : his  effect  on  other 
countries  must  in  time  be  equally  decided  ; for  such  noble- 
ness of  heart  and  soul  shadowed  forth  in  beautiful  imperisha- 
ble emblems,  is  a treasure  which  belongs  not  to  one  nation, 
but  to  all.  In  another  age,  this  Schiller  will  stand  forth  in 
the  foremost  rank  among  the  master-spirits  of  his  century ; 
and  be  admitted  to  a place  among  the  chosen  of  all  centuries. 
His  works,  the  memory  of  what  he  did  and  was,  will  rise  afar 
off  like  a towering  landmark  in  the  solitude  of  the  Past,  when 
distance  shall  have  dwarfed  into  invisibility  the  lesser  people 
that  encompassed  him,  anct  hid  him  from  the  near  beholder. 

On  the  whole,  we  may  pronounce  him  happy.  His  days 
passed  in  the  contemplation  of  ideal  grandeurs,  he  lived 
among  the  glories  and  solemnities  of  universal  Nature ; his 
thoughts  were  of  sages  and  heroes,  and  scenes  of  elysian 
beauty.  It  is  true,  he  had  no  rest,  no  peace  ; but  he  enjoyed-* 

1 On  a surgical  inspection  of  his  body  after  death,  the  most  vital  or- 
gans were  found  totally  deranged.  ‘ The  structure  of  the  lungs  was  in 
great  part  destroyed,  the  cavities  of  the  heart  were  nearly  grown  up, 
the  liver  had  become  hard,  and  the  gall-bladder  was  extended  to  an  ex- 
traordinary size.  ’ — Doering. 


SCHILLER  AT  WEIMAR. 


201 


the  fiery  consciousness  of  his  own  activity,  which  stands  in 
place  of  it  for  men  like  him.  It  is  true,  he  was  long  sickly  ; 
but  did  he  not  even  then  conceive  and  body  forth  Max  Pic- 
coldmini,  and  Thekla,  and  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  and  the  scenes 
of  Wilhelm  Tell ? It  is  true,  he  died  early  ; but  the  student 
will  exclaim  with  Charles  XII.  in  another  case,  “Was  it  not 
enough  of  life  when  he  had  conquered  kingdoms  ? ” These 
kingdoms  which  Schiller  conquered  were  not  for  one  nation 
at  the  expense  of  suffering  to  another  ; they  were  soiled  by 
no  patriot’s  blood,  no  widow’s,  no  orphan’s  tear : they  are 
kingdoms  conquered  from  the  barren  realms  of  darkness,  to 
increase  the  happiness,  and  dignity,  and  power,  of  all  men  ; 
new  forms  of  Truth,  new  maxims  of  Wisdom,  new  images  and 
scenes  of  Beauty,  won  from  the  ‘ void  and  formless  Infinite  ; ’ 
a KTrjfxa  k alel,  ‘ a possession  forever,’  to  all  the  generations  of 
the  Earth. 


HERR  SATJPE’S  BOOK. 


In  the  end  of  Autumn  last  a considerately  kind  old  Friend 
of  mine  brought  home  to  me,  from  his  Tour  in  Germany,  a 
small  Book  by  a Herr  Saupe,  one  of  the  Head-masters  of 
Gera  High-School, — Book  entitled  ‘ Schiller  and  His  Father’s 
Household,’1 — of  which,  though  it  has  been  before  the  world 
these  twenty  years  and  more,  I had  not  heard  till  then.  The 
good  little  Book, — an  altogether  modest,  lucid,  exact  and  ami- 
able, though  not  very  lively  performance,  offering  new  little 
facts  about  the  Schiller  world,  or  elucidations  and  once  or 
twice  a slight  correction  of  the  old, — proved  really  interesting 
and  instructive  ; awoke,  in  me  especially,  multifarious  reflec- 
tions, mournfully  beautiful  old  memories; — and  led  to  farther 
readings  in  other  Books  touching  on  the  same  subject,  partic- 
ularly in  these  three  mentioned  below, 2 — the  first  two  of 
them  earlier  than  Saupe’s,  the  third  later  and  slightly  correc- 
tive of  him  once  or  twice  ; — all  which  agreeably  employed  me 
for  some  weeks,  and  continued  to  be  rather  a pious  recreation 
than  any  labour. 

To  this  accident  of  Saupe’s  little  Book  there  was,  meanwhile, 
added  another  not  less  unexpected  : a message,  namely,  from 
Bibliopolic  Headquarters  that  my  own  poor  old  Book  on  Schil- 

1 Schiller  und  sein  Vaterliches  Earn.  Von  Ernst  Julius  Saupe,  Subcon- 
rector  am  Gymnasium  zu  Gera.  Leipzig:  Yerlagsbuchkandlung  von 
J.  J.  Weber,  1851. 

2 Schiller's  Leben  von  Gustav  Schwab  (Stuttgart,  1841). 

Schiller’s  Leben , verfasst  aus,  &c.  By  Caroline  von  Wolzogen,  born  von 
Lengefeld  (Sckillei-’s  Sister-in-law) : Stuttgart  und  Tubingen,  1845. 

Schiller's  Bezieliungen  zu,  Eltern,  Geschwistem  und  der  Familie  von 
Wolzogen,  aus  den  Familien-Papieren.  By  Baroness  von  Gleicken  (Schil- 
ler's youngest  daughter)  and  Baron  von  Wolzogen  (her  Cousin) : Stutt- 
gart, 1859. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


203 


ler  was  to  be  reprinted,  and  that  in  this  “ People’s  Edition  ” it 
would  want  (on  deduction  of  the  German  Piece  by  Goethe, 
which  had  gone  into  the  “ Library  Edition,”  but  which  had  no 
fitness  here)  some  sixty  or  seventy  pages  for  the  proper  size 
of  the  volume.  Saupe,  which  I was  still  reading,  or  idly  read- 
ing-about,  offered  the  ready  expedient : — and  here  accordingly 
Saupe  is.  I have  had  him  faithfully  translated,  and  with  some 
small  omissions  or  abridgments,  slight  transposals  here  and 
there  for  clearness’  sake,  and  one  or  two  elucidative  patches, 
gathered  from  the  three  subsidiary  Books  already  named,  all 
duly  distinguished  from  Saupe’s  text  ; — whereby  the  gap  or 
deficit  of  pages  is  well  filled  up,  almost  of  its  own  accord. 
And  thus  I can  now  certify  that,  in  all  essential  respects,  the 
authentic  Saupe  is  here  made  accessible  to  English  readers  as 
to  German  ; and  hope  that  to  many  lovers  of  Schiller  among 
us,  who  are  likely  to  be  lovers  also  of  humbly  beautiful  Human 
Worth,  and  of  such  an  unconsciously  noble  scene  of  Poverty 
made  richer  than  any  California,  as  that  of  the  elder  Schiller 
Household  here  manifests,  it  may  be  a welcome  and  even  prof- 
itable bit  of  reading. 

Chelsea,  Nov.  1872.  T.  C. 


SAUPE’S  “ SCHILLER  AND  HIS  FATHER’S  HOUSE- 
HOLD.” 

I.  THE  FATHER. 

‘Schiller’s  Father,  Johann  Caspar  Schiller,  was  born  at  Bit- 
tenfeld,  a parish  hamlet  in  the  ancient  part  of  Wurtemberg,  a 
little  north  of  Waiblingen,  on  the  27th  October  1723.  He  had 
not  yet  completed  his  tenth  year  when  his  Father,  Johannes 
Schiller,  Schultheis s,  “ Petty  Magistrate,”  of  the  Village,  and 
by  trade  a Baker,  died,  at  the  age  of  fifty-one.  Soon  after  which 
the  fatherless  Boy,  hardly  fitted  out  with  the  most  essential' 
elements  of  education,  had  to  quit  school,  and  was  apprenticed 
to  a Surgeon  ; with  whom,  according  to  the  then  custom,  he 
was  to  learn  the  art  of  “ Surgery  ; ” but  in  reality  had  little 
more  to  do  than  follow  the  common  employment  of  a Barber. 


204 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


‘After  completing  his  apprenticeship  and  proof-time,  the 
pushing  young  lad,  eager  to  get  forward  in  the  world,  went, 
during  the  Austrian-Succession  War,  in  the  year  1745,  with  a 
Bavarian  Hussar  Regiment,  as  “ Army  Doctor,”  into  the 
Netherlands.  Here,  as  his  active  mind  found  no  full  employ- 
ment in  the  practice  of  his  Art,  he  willingly  undertook,  withal, 
the  duties  of  a sub-officer  in  small  military  enterprises.  On 
the  Peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  1748,  when  a part  of  this  Regi- 
ment was  disbanded,  and  Schiller  with  them,  he  returned  to 
his  homeland  ; and  set  himself  down  in  Marbaeh,  a pleasant 
little  country  town  on  the  Neckar,  as  practical  Surgeon  there. 
Here,  in  1749,  he  married  the  Poet’s.  Mother  ; then  a young 
girl  of  sixteen  : Elisabetha  Dorothea,  born  at  Marbaeh  in  the 
year  1783,  the  daughter  of  a respectable  townsman,  Georg 
Friedrich  Kodweis,  who,  to  his  trade  of  Baker  adding  that  of 
Innkeeper  and  Woodmeasurer,  had  gathered  a little  fortune, 
and  was  at  this  time  counted  well-off,  though  afterwards,  by 
some  great  inundation  of  the  Neckar,’  date  not  given,  ‘ he  was 
again  reduced  to  poverty.  The  brave  man  by  this  unavoidable 
mischance  came,  by  degrees,  so  low  that  he  had  to  give  up 
his  house  in  the  Market-Place,  and  in  the  end  to  dwell  in  a 
poor  hut,  as  Porter  at  one  of  the  Toll-Gates  of  Marbaeh. 
Elisabetha  was  a comely  girl  to  look  upon  ; slender,  well- 
formed,  without  quite  being  tall ; the  neck  long,  hair  high- 
blond,  almost  red,  brow  broad,  eyes  as  if  a little  sorish,  face 
covered  with  freckles  ; but  with  all  these  features  enlivened 
by  a soft  expression  of  kindliness  and  good-nature. 

‘ This  marriage,  for  the  first  eight  years,  wras  childless ; 
after  that,  they  gradually  had  six  children,  two  of  whom  died 
soon  after  birth ; the  Poet  Schiller  was  the  second  of  these 
six,  and  the  only  Boy.  The  young  couple  had  to  live  in  a 
very  narrow,  almost  needy  condition,  as  neither  of  them  had 
any  fortune  ; and  the  Husband’s  business  could  hardly  sup- 
port a household.  There  is  still  in  existence  a legal  Marriage 
Record  and  Inventory,  such  as  is  usual  in  these  cases,  which 
estimates  the  money  and  money’s  worth  brought  together  by 
the  young  people  at  a little,  over  700  gulden  (70/.).  Out  of 
the  same  Inventory,  one  sees,  by  the  small  value  put  upon  the 


SUPPLEMENT. 


205 


surgical  instruments,  and  the  outstanding  debts  of  patients, 
distinctly  enough,  that  Caspar  Schiller’s  practice,  at  that  jjoint 
of  time,  did  not  much  exceed  that  of  a third-class  Surgeon, 
and  was  scarcely  adequate,  as  above  stated,  to  support  the 
thriftiest  household.  And  therefore  it  is  not  surprising  that 
Schiller,  intent  on  improving  so  bare  a position,  should,  at 
the  breaking-out  of  the  Seven-Years  War,  have  anew  sought 
a military  appointment,  as  withal  more  fit  for  employing  his 
young  strength  and  ambitions. 

‘In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1757  he  went,  accordingly, 
as  Ensign  and  Adjutant,  into  the  Wiirtemberg  Regiment  of 
Prince  Louis  ; which  in  several  of  the  campaigns  in  the  Seven- 
Years  War  belonged  to  an  auxiliary  corps  of  the  Austrian 
Army.  ’ — Was  he  at  the  Ball  of  Fulda,  one  wonders  ? Yes,  for 
certain  ! He  was  at  the  Ball  of  Fulda  (tragi-comical  Explo- 
sion of  a Ball,  not  yet  got  to  the  dancing-point) ; and  had  to 
run  for  life,  as  his  Duke,  in  a highly-ridiculous  manner,  had 
already  done.  And,  again,  tragically,  it  is  certain  that  he 
stood  on  the  fated  Austrian  left-wing  at  the  Battle  of  Leuthen  ; 
had  his  horse  shot  under  him  there,  and  was  himself  nearly 
drowned  in  a quagmire,  struggling  towards  Breslau  that  night. 1 

‘ In  Bohemia  this  Corps  was  visited  by  an  infectious  fever, 
and  suffered  by  the  almost  pestilential  disorder  a good  deal  of 
loss.  In  this  bad  time,  Schiller,  who  by  his  temperance  and 
frequent  movement  in  the  open  air  had  managed  to  retain  per- 
fect health,  showed  himself  very  active  and  helpful  ; and  cheer- 
fully undertook  every  kind  of  business  in  which  he  could  be 
of  use.  He  attended  the  sick,  there  being  a scarcity  of  Doc- 
tors ; and  served  at  the  same  time  as  Chaplain  to  the  Regi- 
ment, so  far  as  to  lead  the  Psalmody,  and  read  the  Prayers. 
When,  after  this,  he  was  changed  into  another  Wiirtemberg 
Regiment,  which  served  in  Hessen  and  Thiiringen,  he  em- 
ployed every  free  hour  in  filling  up,  by  his  own  industrious 
study,  the  many  deeply -felt  defects  in  his  young  schooling ; 

1 See  Life  of  Friedrich  (Book  xix.  cliap.  8 ; Book  xviii.  chap.  10),  and 
Schiller  Senior’s  rough  hit  of  Autobiography,  called  ‘ Maine  Lebensge- . 
schichte,’  in  Schiller's  Bezich  ungen  zu  Eltern,  Geschwistern  und  der  Fa- 
indie  von  Wolzogen  (mentioned  above),  pp.  1 et  seqq. 


206 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


and  was  earnestly  studious.-  By  liis  perseverant  zeal  and  dili- 
gence, he  succeeded  in  the  course  of  these  war-years  in  ac- 
quiring not  only  many  medical,  military  and  agricultural 
branches  of  knowledge,  but  also,  as  his  Letters  prove,  in 
amassing  a considerable  amount  of  general  culture.  Nor  did 
his  praiseworthy  efforts  remain  without  recognition  and  ex- 
ternal reward.  At  the  end  of  the  Seven-Tears  War,  he  had 
risen  to  be  a Captain,  and  had  even  saved  a little  money. 

‘His  Wife,  who,  during  these  War-times,  lived,  on  money 
sent  by  him,  in  her  Father’s  house  at  Marbach,  he  could  only 
visit  seldom,  and  for  short  periods  in  winter  quarters,  much 
as  he  longed  for  his  faithful  Wife  ; who,  after  the  birth  of  a 
Daughter,  in  September  1757,  was  dearer  to  him  than  ever. 
But  never  had  the  rigid  fetters  of  War-Discipline  appeared 
more  oppressive  than  when,  two  years  later,  in  November 
1759,  a Son,  the  Poet,  was  born.  With  joyful  thanks  to  God, 
he  saluted  this  dear  Gift  of  Heaven  ; in  daily  prayer  com- 
mended Mother  and  Child  to  “ the  Being  of  all  Beings  ; ” and 
waited  now  with  impatience  the  time  when  he  should  revisit 
his  home,  and  those  that  were  his  there.  Yet  there  still  passed 
four  years  before  Father  Schiller,  on  conclusion  of  the  Hu- 
bertsburg  Peace,  1763,  could  return  home  from  the  War, 
and  again  take  up  his  permanent  residence  in  his  home-coun- 
try. Where,  on  his  return,  his  first  Garrison  quarters  were, 
whether  at  Ludwigsburg,  Cannstadt  or  what  other  place,  is 
not  known.  On  the  other  hand,  all  likelihoods  are,  that,  so 
soon  as  he  could  find  it  possible,  he  carried  over  his  Wife  and 
his  two  Children,  the  little  Daughter  Christophine  six,  and 
the  little  Friedrich  now  four,  out  of  Marbach  to  his  own 
quarters,  wherever  these  were.’ 

There  is  no  date  to  the  Neckar  Inundation  above  men- 
tioned ; but  we  have  elsewhere  evidence  that  the  worthy 
Father  Kodweis  with  his  Wife,  at  this  time,  still  dwelt  in  their 
comfortable  house  in  the  Market-Place.  We  know  also,  though 
it  is  not  mentioned  in  the  text,  that  their  pious  Daughter 
struggled  zealously  to  the  last  to  alleviate  their  sore  poverty  ; 
and  the  small  effect,  so  far  as  money  goes,  may  testify  how 
poor  and  straitened  the  Schiller  Family  itself  then  was. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


207 


‘ With  the  Father’s  return  out  of  War,  there  came  a new 
element  into  the  Family,  which  had  so  long  been  deprived  of 
its  natural  Guardian  and  Counsellor.  To  be  House-Father  in 
the  full  sense  of  the  word  was  now  all  the  more  Captain 
Schiller’s  need  and  duty,  the  longer  his  War  Service  had  kept 
him  excluded  from  the  sacred  vocation  of  Husband  and  Father. 
For  he  was  throughout  a rational  and  just  man,  simple,  strong, 
expert,  active  for  practical  life,  if  also  somewhat  quick  and 
rough.  This  announced  itself  even  in  the  outward  make  and 
look  of  him  ; for  he  was  of  short  stout  stature  and  powerful 
make  of  limbs  ; the  brow  high-arched,  eyes  sharp  and  keen. 
Withal,  his  erect  carriage,  his  firm  step,  his  neat  clothing,  as 
well  as  his  clear  and  decisive  mode  of  speech,  all  testified  of 
strict  military  training  ; which  also  extended  itself  over  his 
whole  domestic  life,  and  even  over  the  daily  devotions  of  the 
Family.  For  although  the  shallow  Hluminationism  of  that 
period  had  produced  some  influence  on  his  religious  convic- 
tions, he  held  fast  by  the  pious  principles  of  his  forebeers  ; 
read  regularly  to  his  household  out  of  the  Bible  ; and  pro- 
nounced aloud,  each  day,  the  Morning  and  Evening  Prayer. 
And  this  was,  in  his  case,  not  merely  an  outward  decorous  bit 
of  discipline,  but  in  fact  the  faithful  expression  of  his  Christian 
conviction,  that  man’s  true  worth  and  true  happiness  can  alone 
be  found  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and  the  moral  purity  of  his 
heart  and  conduct.  He  himself  had  even,  in  the  manner  of 
those  days,  composed  a long  Prayer,  which  he  in  later  years 
addressed  to  God  every  morning,  and  which  began  with  the 
following  lines  : 

True  Watcher  of  Israel ! 

To  Thee  be  praise,  thanks  and  honour. 

Praying  aloud  I praise  Thee, 

That  earth  and  Heaven  may  hear. 1 

‘ If,  therefore,  a certain  otherwise  accredited  Witness  calls 
him  a kind  of  crotchety,  fantastic  person,  mostly  brooding 
over  strange  thoughts  and  enterprises,  this  can  only  have 

1 ‘ Treuer  Wackier  Israels  ! 

Dir  sei  Preis  und  Dank  und  Eliren  ; 

Lout  betend  lob'  ich  Dick , 

Dass  es  Erd’  und  Himmel  koren  ’ &c. 


208 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 

meant  that  Caspar  Schiller  in  earlier  years  appeared  such’ 
namely  at  the  time  when,  as  incipient  Surgeon  at  Marbach, 
he  saw  himself  forced  into  a circle  of  activity  which  corre- 
sponded neither  to  his  inclination,  strength  nor  necessities. 

‘ On  the  spiritual  development  of  his  Son  this  conscientious 
Father  employed  his  warmest  interest  and  activities  ; and 
appears  to  have  been  for  some  time  assisted  herein  by  a near 
relation,  a certain  Johann  Friedrich  Schiller  from  Bittenfeld  ; 
the  same  who,  as  Studiosus  Philosophies,  was,  in  1759,  God- 
father to  the  Boy.  He  is  said  to  have  given  the  little  Godson 
Fritz  his  first  lessons  in  'Writing,  Natural-History  and  Geog- 
raphy. A more  effective  assistance  in  this  matter  the  Father 
soon  after  met  with  on  removing  to  Lorch. 

‘ In  the  year  1765,  the  reigning  Duke,  Karl  of  Wurtemberg, 
sent  Captain  Schiller  as  Recruiting  Officer  to  the  Imperial 
Free-Town  Schwabish-Gmiind  ; with  permission  to  live  with 
his  Family  in  the  nearest  Wurtemberg  place,  the  Tillage  and 
Cloister  of  Lorch.  Lorch  lies  in  a green  meadow-ground, 
surrounded  by  beech-woods,  at  the  foot  of  a hill,  which  is 
crowned  by  the  weird  buildings  of  the  Cloister,  where  the  Ho- 
henstaufen  graves  are  ; opposite  the  Cloister  and  Hamlet,  rise 
the  venerable  ruins  of  Hohenstaufen  itself,  with  a series  of 
hills  ; at  the  bottom  winds  the  Rems,’  a branch  of  the  Neckar, 

‘ towards  still  fruitfuler  regions.  In  this  attractive  rural  spot 
the  Schiller  Family  resided  for  several  years  ; and  found  from 
the  pious  and  kindly  people  of  the  Hamlet,  and  especially 
from  a friend  of  the  house,  Moser,  the  worthy  Parish-Parson 
there,  the  kindliest  reception.  The  Schiller  children  soon 
felt  themselves  at  home  and  happy  in  Lorch,  especially  Fiitz 
did,  who,  in  the  Parson’s  Son,  Christoph  Ferdinand  Moser,  a 
soft  gentle  child,  met  with  his  first  boy-friend.  In  this  worthy 
Parson’s  house  he  also  received,  along  with  the  Parson’s  own 
Sons,  the  first  regular  and  accurate  instruction  in  reading  and 
writing,  as  also  in  the  elements  of  Latin  and  Greek.  This 
arrangement  pleased  and  comforted  Captain  Schiller  not  a 
little  : for  the  more  distinctly  he,  with  his  clear  and  candid 
character,  recognised  the  insufficiency  of  his  own  instruction 


SUPPLEMENT. 


209 


ancl  stock  of  knowledge,  the  more  impressively  it  lay  on  liim 
that  his  Son  should  early  acquire  a good  foundation  in  Lan- 
guages and  Science,  and  learn  something  sohd  and  effective. 
What  he  could  himself  do  in  that  particular  he  faithfully  did  ; 
bringing  out,  with  this  purpose,  partly  the  grand  historical 
memorials  of  that  neighbourhood,  partly  his  own  life-expe- 
riences, in  instructive  and  exciting  dialogues  w7ith  his  children. 
He  would  point  out  to  the  listening  little  pair  the  venerable 
remains  of  the  Holienstaufen  Ancestral  Castle,  or  tell  them  of 
his  own  soldier-career.  He  took  the  Boy  with  him  into  the 
Exercise  Camp,  to  the  Woodmen  in  the  Forest,  and  even  into 
the  farther-distant  pleasure-castle  of  Holienheim  ; and  there- 
by led  their  youthful  imagination  into  many  changeful  imagin- 
ings of  life.1 

‘Externally  little  Fritz  and  his  Sister  were' not  like  ; Chris- 
tophine  more  resembling  the  Father,  whilst  Friedrich  was  the 
image  of  the  Mother.  On  the  other  hand,  they  had  internally 
very  much  in  common  ; both  possessed  a lively  apprehension 
for  whatever  was  true,  beautiful  or  good.  Both  had  a temper 
capable  of  enthusiasm,  which  early  and  chiefly  turned  to- 
wards the  sublime  and  grand  : in  short,  the  strings  of  their 
souls  were  tuned  on  a cognate  tone.  Add  to  this,  that  both, 
in  the  beautifulest,  happiest  period  of  their  life,  had  been  un- 
der the  sole  care  and  direction  of  the  pious  genial  Mother  ; 
and  that  Fritz,  at  least  till  his  sixth  year,  was  exclusively 
limited  to  Christophine’s  society,  and  had  no  other  com- 
panion. They  two  had  to  be,  and  were,  all  to  each  other. 
Christophine  on  this  account  stood  nearer  to  her  Brother 
throughout  all  his  life  than  the  Sisters  who  were  born  later. 

‘ In  rural  stillness,  and  in  almost  uninterrupted  converse 
with  out-door  nature,  flowed  by  for  Fritz  and  her  the  great- 
est part  of  their  childhood  and  youth.  Especially  clear  to 
them  was  their  abode  in  this  romantic  region.  Every  hour 
that  was  free  from  teaching  or  other  task,  they  employed  in 
roaming  about  in  the  neighbourhood  ; and  they  knew  no 
higher  joy  than  a ramble  into  the  neighbouring  hills.  In  par- 
ticular they  liked  to  make  pilgrimages  together  to  a chapel 
1 Saupc,  p.  11. 


210 


THE  LIFE  OF  FBI  ED  RICE  SCHILLER. 


on  the  Calvary  Hill  at  Gmiinri,  a few  miles  off,  to  which  the 
way  was  still  through  the  old  monkish  grief-stations,  on  to 
the  Cloister  of  Lorch  noticed  above.  Often  they  would  sit 
with  closely-grasped  hands,  under  the  thousand-years-old 
Linden,  which  stood  on  a projection  before  the  Cloister-walls, 
and  seemed  to  whisper  to  them  long-silent  tales  of  past  ages. 
On  these  walks  the  hearts  of  the  two  clasped  each  other  ever 
closer  and  more  firmly,  and  they  faithfully  shared  their  little 
childish  joys  and  sorrows.  Christophine  would  bitterly  weep 
when  her  vivacious  Brother  had  committed  some  small  mis- 
deed and  was  punished  for  it.  In  such  cases,  she  often 
enough  confessed  Fritz’s  faults  as  her  own,  and  was  punished 
when  she  had  in  reality  had  no  complicity  in  them.  It  was 
with  great  sorrow  that  they  two  parted  from  their  little  Para- 
dise ; and  both  of  them  always  retained  a great  affection  for 
Lorch  and  its  neighbourhood.  Christophine,  who  lived  to  be 
ninety,  often  even  in  her  latter  days  looked  back  with  tender 
affection  to  their  abode  there.1 

1 In  his  family-circle,  the  otherwise  hard-mannered  Father 
showed  always  to  Mother  and  Daughters  the  tenderest  re- 
spect and  the  affectionate  tone  wilich  the  heart  suggests. 
Thus,  if  at  table  a dish  had  chanced  to  be  especially  prepared 
for  him,  he  would  never  eat  of  it  without  first  inviting  the 
Daughters  to  be  helped.  As  little  could  he  ever,  in  the  long- 
run,  withstand  the  requests  of  his  gentle  Wife  ; so  that  not 
seldom  she  managed  to  soften  his  rough  severity.  The  Chil- 
dren learned  to  make  use  of  this  feature  in  his  character  ; and 
would  thereby  save  themselves  from  the  first  outburst  of  his 
anger.  They  confessed  beforehand  to  the  Mother  their  bits 
of  misdoings,  and  begged  her  to  inflict  the  punishment,  and 
prevent  their  falling  into  the  heavier  paternal  hand.  Towards 
the  Son  again,  whose  moral  development  his  Father  anxiously 
watched  over,  his  wrrath  was  at  times  disarmed  by  touches  of 
courage  and  fearlessness  on  the  Boy’s  part.  Thus  little  Fritz, 
once  on  a visit  at  Hohenlieim,  in  the  house  where  his  Father 
was  calling,  and  which  formed  part  of  the  side  buildings  of 
1 Saupe,  pp.  106-108. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


211 


the  Castle,  whilst  his  Father  followed  his  business  within 
doors,  had,  unobserved,  clambered  out  of  a saloon-window, 
and  undertaken  a voyage  of  discovery  over  the  roofs.  The 
Boy,  who  had  been  missed  and  painfully  sought  after,  was 
discovered  just  on  the  point  of  trying  to  have  a nearer  view  of 
the  Lion’s  Head,  by  which  one  of  the  roof-gutters  discharges 
itself,  when  the  terrified  Father  got  eye  on  him,  and  called 
out  aloud.  Cunning  Fritz,  however,  stood  motionless  where 
he  was  on  the  roof,  till  his  Father’s  anger  had  stilled  itself, 
and  pardon  was  promised  him.’ — Here  farther  is  a vague  an- 
ecdote made  authentic:  ‘Another  time  the  little  fellow  was 
not  to  be  found  at  the  evening  meal,  while,  withal,  there  was 
a heavy  thunderstorm  in  the  sky,  and  fiery  bolts  were  blazing 
through  the  black  clouds.  He  was  searched  for  in  vain,  all 
over  the  house  ; and  at  every  new  thunder-clap  the  misery  of 
his  Parents  increased.  At  last  they  found  him,  not  far  from 
the  house,  on  the  top  of  the  highest  lime-tree,  which  he  was 
just  preparing  to  descend,  under  the  crashing  of  a very  loud 
peal.  “In  God’s  name,  what  hast  thou  been  doing  there  ? ” 
cried  the  agitated  Father.  “I  wanted  to  know,”  answered 
Fritz,  “where  all  that  fire  in  the  sky  was  coming  from  ! ” 

‘ Three  full  years  the  Schiller  Family  lived  at  Lorch  ; and 
this  in  rather  narrow  circumstances,  as  the  Father,  though  in 
the  service  of  his  Prince,  could  not,  during  the  whole  of  this 
time,  receive  the  smallest  part  of  his  pay,  but  had  to  live  on 
the  little  savings  he  had  made  during  War-time.  Not  till 
1768,  after  the  most  impressive  petitioning  to  the  Duke,  was 
he  at  last  called  away  from  his  post  of  Recruiting  Officer,  and 
transferred  to  the  Garrison  of  Ludwigsburg,  where  he,  by 
little  and  little,  squeezed  out  the  pay  owing  him. 

‘ Upon  his  removal,  the  Father’s  first  care  was  to  establish 
his  little  Boy,  now  nine  years  old, — who,  stirred-on  probably 
by  the  impressions  he  had  got  in  the  Parsonage  at  Lorch,  and 
the  visible  wish  of  his  Parents,  had  decided  for  the  Clerical 
Profession, — in  the  Latin  school  at  Ludwigsburg.  This  done, 
he  made  it  his  chief  care  that  his  Sou’s  progress  should  be 
swift  and  satisfying  there.  But  on  that  side,  Fritz  could 


212 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


never  come  up  to  his  expectations,  though  the  Teachers  were 
well  enough  contented.  But  out  of  school-time,  Fritz  was 
not  so  zealous  and  diligent  as  could  be  wished  ; liked  rather 
to  spiffing  about  and  sport  in  the  garden.  The  arid,. stony, 
philological  instruction  of  his  teacher,  Johann  Friedrich  Jahn, 
who  was  a solid  Latiner,  and  nothing  more,  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  make  a specially  alluring  impression  on  the  clever 
and  lively  Boy  ; thus  it  was  nothing  but  the  reverence  and 
awe  of  his  Father  that  could  drive  him  on  to  diligence. 

‘ To  this  time  belongs  the  oldest  completely  preserved  Poem 
of  Schiller's  ; it  is  in  the  form  of  a little  Hymn,  in  which,  on 
New-year’s  day  1769,  the  Boy,  now  hardly  over  nine  years 
old,  presents  to  his  Parents  the  wishes  of  the  season.  It  may 
stand  here  by  way  of  glimpse  into  the  position  of  the  Son 
towards  his  Parents,  especially  towards  his  Father. 

Much-loved  Parents.  1 
Parents,  wliom  I lovingly  honour, 

Today  my  heart  is  full  of  thankfulness ! 

This  Year  may  a gracious  God  increase 
What  is  at  all  times  your  support ! 

The  Lord,  the  Fountain  of  all  joy, 

Remain  always  your  comfort  and  portion  ; 

His  Word  he  the  nourishment  of  your  heart, 

And  Jesus  your  wished-for  salvation. 

I thank  you  for  all  your  proofs  of  love, 

For  all  your  care  and  patience  ; 

My  heart  shall  praise  all  your  goodness, 

And  ever  comfort  itself  in  your  favour. 

Obedience,  diligence  and  tender  love 
I promise  you  for  this  Year. 

God  send  me  only  good  inclinations, 

And  make  true  all  my  wishes ! Amen. 

1 January  1769.  Johann  Friedrich  Schiller. 


1 Herzcieliebte  Eltern. 
Eltern,  die  ieh  zartlich  elm, 

Mein  Herz  ist  lieut’  toll  DaiMariceit ! 
Der  treuc  Gott  dies  Jahr  vermehrc 
Was  Sie  erquiekt  zujeder  Zeit! 


SUPPLEMENT. 


213 


‘ According'  to  tlie  pious  wish  of  their  Son,  this  year,  1769, 
did  bring  somewhat  which  “ comforted  ” them.  Captain 
Schiller,  from  of  old  a lover  of  rural  occupations;  and  skilful 
in  gardening  and  nursery  affairs,  had,  at  Ludwigsburg,  laid 
out  for  himself  a little  Nursery.  It  was  managed  on  the  same 
principles  which  he  afterwards  made  public  in  his  Book,  Die 
Baumzucht  im  Grossen  (Neustrelitz,  1795,  and  second  edition, 
Giessen,  1806)  ; and  was  prospering  beautifully.  The  Duke, 
who  had  noticed  this,  signified  satisfaction  in  the  thing ; and  he 
appointed  him,  in  1770,  to  shift  to  his  beautiful  Forest-Castle, 
Die  Solitude,  near  Stuttgart,  as  overseer  of  all  his  Forest  opera- 
tions there.  Hereby  to  the  active  man  was  one  of  his  dearest 
wishes  fulfilled  ; and  a sphere  of  activity  opened,  correspond- 
ing to  his  acquirements  and  his  inclination.  At  Solitude,  by 
the  Duke’s  order,  he  laid  out  a Model  Nursery  for  all  Wiir- 
temberg,  which  he  managed  with  perfect  care  and  fidelity  ; 
and  in  this  post  he  so  completely  satisfied  the  expectations 
entertained  of  him,  that  his  Prince  by  and  by  raised  him  to 
the  rank  of  Major.’  He  is  reckoned  to  have  raised  from  seeds, 
and  successfully  planted,  60,000  trees,  in  discharge  of  this 
function,  which  continued  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

‘His  Family,  which  already  at  Lorch,  in  1766,  had  been 
increased  t>y  the  birth  of  a daughter,  Luise,  waited  but  a 
short  time  in  Ludwigsburg  till  the  Father  brought  them  over 

Per  Ilerr,  die  Quelle  oiler  Freude, 

Verhleibe  stets  lhr  Trost  und  Tlicil ; 

■ Sein  Wort  sei  Hires  Herzens  Wtide , 

Und  Jesus  lhr  erumnschtes  Heil. 

Ich  dank’  von  alle  Liebes-Proben, 

Von  alle  Sonjfalt  und  Geduld, 

Mein  Herz  soil  alle  Gilte  loben, 

Und  trosten  sich  stets  Hirer  Huld. 

Gehorsam,  Fleiss  und  zarte  Liebe 
Verspreche  ich  auf  dieses  Jahr. 

Per  Herr  shenk'  mir  nur  gute  Treibe, 

Und  maclie  all'  mein  Wunschen  todhr.  Amen. 

Johann  Christoph  Friedrich  SchllIer. 

Per  1 Januarii  Anno  1769. 


214 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


to  the  Dew  dwelling  at  Solitude.  Fritz,  on  the  removal  of  his 
Parents,  was  given  over  as  boarder  to  his  actual  Teacher,  the 
rigorous  pedant  Jahn  ; and  remained  yet  two  years  at  the 
Latin  school  in  Ludwigsburg.  During  this  time,  the  lively, 
and  perhaps  also  sometimes  mischievous  Boy,  was  kept  in  the 
strictest  fetters  ; and,  by  the  continual  admonitions,  exhorta- 
tions, and  manually  practical  corrections  of  Father  and  of 
Teacher,  not  a little  held  down  and  kept  in  fear.  The  fact, 
for  instance,  that  he  liked  more  the  potent  Bible-words  and 
pious  songs  of  a Luther,  a Paul  Gerhard,  and  Gellert,  than  he 
did  the  frozen  lifeless  catechism-drill  of  the  Ludwigsburg  In- 
stitute, gave  surly  strait-laced  Jahn  occasion  to  lament  from 
time  to  time  to  the  alarmed  Parents,  that  “ their  Son  had  no 
feeling  whatever  for  religion.”  In  this  respect,  however,  the 
otherwise  so  irritable  Father  easily  satisfied  himself,  not  only 
by  his  own  observations  of  an  opposite  tendency,  but  chiefly 
by  stricter  investigation  of  one  little  incident  that  was  reported 
to  him.  The  teacher  of  religion  in  the  Latin  school,  Superin- 
tendent Zilling,  whose  name  is  yet  scornfully  remembered, 
had  once,  in  his  dull  awkwardness,  introduced  even  Solomon’s 
Song  as  an  element  of  nurture  for  his  class  ; and  was  droning 
out,  in  an  old-fashioned  way,  his  interpretation  of  it  as  sym- 
bolical of  the  Christian  Church  and  its  Bridegroom  Christ, 
when  he  was,  on  a sudden,  to  his  no  small  surprise  and  anger, 
interrupted  by  the  audible  inquiry  of  little  Schiller,  “ But  was 
this  Song,  then,  actually  sung  to  the  Church  ? ” Schiller 
Senior  took  the  little  heretic  to  task  for  this  rash  act ; and  got 
as  justification  the  innocent  question,  “Has  the  Church  really 
got  teeth  of  ivory?  ” The  Father  was  enlightened  enough  to 
take  the  Boy’s  opposition  for  a natural  expression  of  sound 
human  sense  ; nay,  he  could  scarcely  forbear  a laugh ; whirled 
swiftly  round,  and  murmured  to  himself,  “ Occasionally  she 
has  Wolf’s  teeth.”  And  so  the  thing  was  finished.1 

‘At  Ludwigsburg  Schiller  and  Christophine  first  saw  a Thea- 
tre ; where  at  that  time,  in  the  sumptuous  Duke’s  love  of 
splendour,  only  pompous  operas  and  ballets  were  given.  The 
first  effect  of  this  new  enjoyment,  which  Fritz  and  his  Sister 
1 Saupe,  p.  18. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


215 


strove  to  repeat  as  often  as  they  could,  was  that  at  home,  with 
little  clipped  and  twisted  paper  dolls,  they  set  about  repre- 
senting scenes  ; and  on  Christophiue’s  part  it  had  the  more 
important  result  of  awakening  and  nourishing,  at  an  early  age, 
her  aesthetic  taste.  Schiller  considered  her,  ever  after  these 
youthful  sports,  as  a true  and  faithful  companion  in  his  poetic 
dreams  and  attempts  ; and  constantly  not  only  told  his  Sister, 
whose  silence  on  such  points  could  be  perfect,  of  all  that  he 
secretly  did  in  the  way  of  verse-making  in  the  Karl’s  School, 
— which,  as  we  shall  see,  he  entered  in  1773,- — but  if  possible 
brought  it  upon  the  scene  with  her.  Scenes  from  the  lyrical 
operetta  of  Semele  were  acted  by  Schiller  and  Christophine, 
on  those  terms  ; which  appears  in  a complete  shape  for  the 
first  time  in  Schiller’s  Anthology,  printed  1782. 1 

‘ So  soon  as  Friedrich  had  gone  through  the  Latin  school 
at  Ludwigsburg,  which  was  in  1772,  he  was,  according  to  the 
standing  regulation,  to  enter  one  of  the  four  Lower  Cloister- 
schools  ; and  go  through  the  farther  curriculum  for  a Wiir- 
temberg  clergyman.  But  now  there  came  suddenly  from  the 
Duke  to  Captain  Schiller  an  offer  to  take  his  Son,  who  had 
been  represented  to  him  as  a clever  boy,  into  the  new  Military 
Training-School,  founded  by  liis  Highness  at  Solitude,  in  1771 ; 
where  he  would  be  brought  up,  and  taken  charge  of,  free  of 
cost. 

‘ In  the  Schiller  Family  this  offer  caused  great  consterna- 
tion and  painful  embarrassment.  The  Father  was  grieved  to 
be  obliged  to  sacrifice  a long-cherished  paternal  plan  to  the 
whim  of  an  arbitrary  ruler  ; and  the  Son  felt  himself  cruelly 
hurt  to  be  torn  away  so  rudely  from  his  hope  and  inclination. 
Accordingly,  how  dangerous  soever  for  the  position  of  tlj.e 
Family  a declining  of  the  Ducal  grace  might  seem,  the 
straightforward  Father  ventured  nevertheless  to  lay  open  to 
the  Duke,  in  a clear  and  distinct  statement,  how  his  purpose 
had  always  been  to  devote  his  Son,  in  respect  both  of  his  in- 
clination and  his  hitherto  studies,  to  the  Clerical  Profession  ; 
for  wlii*ch  in  the  new  Training-School  he  could  not  be  prfe- 
1 Saupe,  p.  109. 


210 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


pared.  The  Duke  showed  no  auger  at  this  step  of  the  elder 
Schiller’s  ; hut  was  just  as  little  of  intention  to  let  a capable 
and  hopeful  scholar,  who  was  also  the  Son  of  one  his  Officers 
and  Dependents,  escape  him.  He  simply,  with  brevity,  re- 
peated his  wish,  and  required  the  choice  of  another  study,  in 
which  the  Boy  would  have  a better  career  and  outlook  than 
in  the  Theological  Department,  Hill  they,  will  they,  there 
was  nothing  for  the  Parents  but  compliance  with  the  so  plainly 
intimated  will  of  this  Duke,  on  whom  their  Family’s  welfare  so 
much  depended. 

‘Accordingly,  17th  January  1773,  Friedrich  Schiller,  then 
in  his  fourteenth  year,  stept  over  to  the  Military  Training- 
School  at  Solitude. 

‘In  September  of  the  following  year,  Schiller’s  Parents  had, 
conformably  to  a fundamental  law  of  the  Institution,  to  ac- 
knowledge and  engage  by  a written  Bond,  “That  their  Son,  in 
virtue  of  his  entrance  into  this  Ducal  Institution,  did  wholly 
devote  himself  to  the  service  of  the  Wurfcemberg  Ducal  House  ; 
that  he,  without  special  Ducal  permission,  was  not  empowered 
to  go  out  of  it ; and  that  he  had,  with  his  best  care,  to  observe 
not  only  this,  but  all  other  regulations  of  the  Institute.”  By 
this  time,  indeed  directly  upon  signature  of  this  strict  Bond, 
young  Schiller  had  begun  to  study  Jurisprudence  ; — which, 
however,  when  nest  year,  1775,  the  Training-School,  raised 
now  to  be  a “Military  Academy,”  had  been  transferred  to 
Stuttgart,  he  either  of  his  own  accord,  or  in  consequence  of  a 
discourse  and  interview  of  the  Duke  with  his  Father,  ex- 
changed for  the  Study  of  Medicine. 

‘ From  the  time  when  Schiller  entered  this  “ Karl's  School  ” ’ 
(Military  Academy,  in  official  style),  ‘ he  was  nearly  altogether 
withdrawn  from  any  tutelage  of  his  Father  ; for  it  was  only 
to  Mothers,  and  to  Sisters  still  under  age,  that  the  privilege 
of  visiting  their  Sons  and  Brothers,  and  this  on  the  Sunday 
only,  was  granted  : beyond  this,  the  Karl's  Scholars,  within 
their  monastic  cells,  were  cut  off  from  family  and  the  world, 
by  iron-doors  and  sentries  guarding  them.  This  rigorous  se- 
clusion from  actual  life  and  all  its  friendly  impressions,  still 
more  the  spiritual  constraint  of  the  Institution,  excluding 


SUPPLEMENT. 


217 


every  free  activity,  and  all  will  of  your  own,  appeared  to  the 
Son  in  a more  hateful  light  than  to  the  Father,  who,  himself 
an  old  soldier,  found  it  quite  according  to  order  that  the 
young  people  should  be  kept  in  strict  military  discipline  and 
subordination.  "What  filled  the  Son  with  bitter  discontent 
and  indignation,  and  at  length  brought  him  to  a kind  of  po- 
etic outburst  of  revolution  in  the  Bobbers,  therein  the  Father 
saw  only  a wholesome  regularity,  and  indispensable  substitute 
for  paternal  discipline.  Transient  complaints  of  individual 
teachers  and  superiors  little  disturbed  the  Father’s  mind  ; for, 
on  the  whole,  the  official  testimonies  concerning  his  Son  were 
steadily  favourable.  The  Duke  too  treated  young  Schiller, 
whose  talents  had  not  escaped  his  sharpness  of  insight,  with 
particular  good-will,  nay  distinction.  To  this  Prince,  used 
to  the  accurate  discernment  of  spiritual  gifts,  the  complaints 
of  certain  Teachers,  that  Schiller’s  slow  jmogress  in  Juris- 
prudence proceeded  from  want  of  head,  were  of  no  weight 
whatever;  and  he  answered  expressly,  “Leave  me  that  one 
alone  ; he  will  come  to  something  yet!  ” But  that  Schiller 
gave  his  main  strength  to  what  in  the  Karl’s  School  was  a 
strictly  forbidden  object,  to  poetry  namely,  this  I believe  was 
entirely  hidden  from  his  Father,  or  appeared  to  him,  on  occa- 
sional small  indications,  the  less  questionable,  as  he  saw  that, 
in  spite  of  this,  the  Marketable-Sciences  were  not  neglected. 

* At  the  same  age,  viz.  about  twenty-two,  at  which  Captain 
Schiller  had  made  his  first  military  sally  into  the  Netherlands 
and  the  Austrian-Succession  War,  his  Son  issued  from  the 
Karl’s  School,  15th  December  1780  ; and  was  immediately  ap- 
pointed Regimental-Doctor  at  Stuttgart,  with  a monthly  pay 
of  twenty-three  gulden  ’ (2 1.  6s.  = 11s.  and  a fraction  per 
week).  ‘ With  this  appointment,  Schiller  had,  as  it  wrere, 
openly  altogether  outgrown  all  special  paternal  guardianship 
or  guidance  ; and  was,  from  this  time,  treated  by  his  Father 
as  come  to  majority,  and  standing  on  his  owu  feet.  If  he 
came  out,  as  frequently  happened,  with  a comrade  to  Solitude, 
he  was  heartily  welcome  there,  and  the  Father’s  looks  often 
dwelt  on  him  with  visible  satisfaction.  If  in  the  conscientious 


21S 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER 


and  rigorous  old  man,  with  his  instructive  and  serious  expe- 
riences of  life,  there  might  jet  various  anxieties  and  doubts 
arise  when  he  heard  of  the  exuberantly  genial  ways  of  his 
hopeful  Son  at  Stuttgart,  he  still  looked  upon  him  with  joyful 
pride,  in  remarking  how  those  so  promising  Karl’s  Scholars, 
who  had  entered  into  the  world  along  with  him,  recognised 
his  superiority  of  mind,  and  willingly  ranked  themselves  under 
him.  Nor  could  it  he  otherwise  than  highly  gratifying  to  his 
old  heart  to  remark  always  with  what  deep  love  the  gifted 
Son  constantly  regarded  his  Parents  and  Sisters.’ ' — Of  Schil- 
ler’s first  procedures  in  Stuttgart,  after  his  emancipation  from 
the  Karl’s  School,  and  appointment  as  Regimental-Surgeon, 
or  rather  of  his  general  behaviour  and  way  of  life  there,  which 
are  said  to  have  been  somewhat  wild,  genially,  or  even  unge- 
nially  extravagant,  and  to  have  involved  him  in  many  paltry  en- 
tanglements of  debts,  as  one  bad  consequence, — there  will  be 
some  notice  in  the  next  Section,  headed  “ The  Mother.”  His 
Regimental  Doctorsliip,  and  stay  in  Stuttgart  altogether, 
lasted  twenty-two  months. 

This  is  Schiller’s  bodily  appearance,  as  it  first  presented  it- 
self to  an  old  School-fellow,  who,  after  an  interval  of  eighteen 
months,  saw  him  again  on  Parade,  as  Doctor  of  the  Regiment 
Auge, — more  to  his  astonishment  than  admiration. 

£ Crushed  into  the  stiff  tasteless  Old-Prussian  Uniform  ; on 
each  of  his  temples  three  stiff  rolls  as  if  done  with  gypsum  ; 
the  tiny  three-cocked  hat  scarcely  covering  his  crown  ; so 
much  the  thicker  the  long  pigtail,  with  the  slender  neck 
crammed  into  a very  narrow  horsehair  stock ; the  felt  put 
under  the  white  spatterdashes,  smirched  by  traces  of  shoe- 
blacking, giving  to  the  legs  a bigger  diameter  than  the  fihighs, 
squeezed  into  their  tight-fitting  breeches,  could  boast  of. 
Hardly,  or  not  at  all,  able  to  bend  his  knees,  the  whole  man 
moved  like  a stork.’ 

‘The  Poet’s  form,’  says  this  Witness  elsewhere,  a bit  of  a 
dilettante  artist  it  seems,  ‘ had  somewhat  the  following  appear- 
ance : Long  straight  stature  ; long  in  the  legs  ; long  in  the 
arms;  pigeon-breasted;  his  neck  very  long  ; something  rigor- 
1 Saupc,  p.  25. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


219 


on  sly  stiff ; in  gait  and  carriage  not  the  smallest  elegance. 
His  brow  was  broad  ; the  nose  thin,  cartilaginous,  white  of 
colour,  springing  out  at  a notably  sharp  angle,  much  bent, — a 
parrot-nose,  and  very  sharp  in  the  point  (according  to  Dan- 
necker  the  Sculptor,  Schiller,  who  took  snuff,  had  pulled  it 
out  so  with  his  hand).  The  red  eyebrows,  over  the  deep-lying 
dark-gray  eyes,  were  bent  too  close  together  at  the  nose,  which 
gave  him  a pathetic  expression.  The  lips  were  thin,  ener- 
getic ; the  under-lip  protruding,  as  if  pushed  forward  by  the 
inspiration  of  his  feelings  ; the  chin  strong  ; cheeks  pale, 
rather  hollow  than  full,  freckly  ; the  eyelids  a little  inflamed  ; 
the  bushy  hair  of  the  head  dark  red  ; the  whole  head  rather 
ghostlike  than  manlike,  but  impressive  even  in  repose,  and  all 
expression  when  Schiller  declaimed.  Neither  the  features 
nor  the  somewhat  slirieky  voice  could  he  subdue.  Dan- 
necker,’  adds  the  satirical  Witness,  ‘ has  unsurpassably  cut 
this  head  in  marble  for  us.’ 1 

‘ The  publication  of  the  Robbers  ’ (Autumn  1781), — ‘which 
Schiller,  driven  on  by  rage  and  desperation,  had  composed  in 
the  fetters  of  the  Karl’s  School, — raised  him  on  the  sudden 
to  a phenomenon  on  which  all  eyes  in  Stuttgart  were  turned. 
What,  with  careless  exaggeration,  he  had  said  to  a friend 
some  months  before,  on  setting  forth  his  Elegy  on  the  Death 
of  a Young  Man,  “The  thing  has  made  my  name  hereabouts 
more  famous  than  twenty  years  of  practice  would  have  done  ; 
but  it  is  a name  like  that  of  him  who  burnt  the  Temple  of 
Ephesus  : God  be  merciful  to  me  a sinner  ! ” might  now  with 
all  seriousness  be  said  of  the  impression  his  Robbers  made  on 
the  harmless  townsfolk  of  Stuttgart.  But  how  did  Father 
Schiller  at  first  take  up  this  eccentric  product  of  his  Son, 
which  openly  declared  war  on  all  existing  order  ? Astonish- 
ment and  terror,  anger  and  detestation,  boundless  anxiety, 
with  touches  of  admiration  and  pride,  stormed  alternately 
through  the  solid  honest  man’s  paternal  breast,  as  he  saw  the 
frank  picture  of  a Prodigal  Son  rolled  out  before  him  ; and 
had  to  gaze  into  the  most  revolting  deeps  of  the  passions  and 

1 Schwab,  Schiller’s  Leben  (Stuttgart,  1841),  p.  68. 


220 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCIIILLER. 


vices.  Yet  he  felt  himself  irresistibly  dragged  along  by  the 
uncommon  vivacity  of  action  in  this  wild  Drama  ; and  at  the 
same  time,  powerfully  attracted  by  the  depth,  the  tenderness, 
and  fulness  of  true  feeling  manifested  in  it : so  that,  at  last, 
out  of  those  contradictory  emotions  of  his,  a clear  admiration 
and  pride  for  his  Sou’s  bold  and  rich  spirit  maintained  the 
upper  hand.  By  Schiller’s  friends  and  closer  connections, 
especially  by  his  Mother  and  Sisters,  all  pains  were  of  course 
taken  to  keep  up  this  favourable  humour  in  the  Father,  and 
carefully  to  hide  from  him  all  disadvantageous  or  disquieting 
tidings  about  the  Piece  and  its  consequences  and  practical 
effects.  Thus  he  heard  sufficiently  of  the  huge  excitement 
and  noise  which  the  Robbers  was  making  all  over  Germany, 
and  of  the  seductive  approval  which  came  streaming-in  on  the 
youthful  Poet,  even  out  of  distant  provinces  ; but  heard  noth- 
ing either  of  the  Duke’s  offended  and  angry  feelings  over 
the  Robbers,  a production  horrible  to  him  ; nor  of  the  Son’s 
secret  journeys  to  Mannheim,  and  the  next  consequences  of 
these  ’ (his  brief  arrest,  namely),  ‘ nor  of  the  rumour  circulating 
in  spiteful  quarters,  that  this  young  Doctor  was  neglecting  his 
own  province  of  medicine,  and  meaning  to  become  a play- 
actor. How  could  the  old  man,  in  these  circumstances,  have 
a thought  that  the  Robbers  would  be  the  loss  of  Family  and 
Country  to  his  poor  Fritz  ! And  yet  so  it  proved. 

‘ Excited  by  all  kinds  of  messagings,  informings  and  in- 
sinuations, the  imperious  Prince,  in  spite  of  his  secret  pleas- 
ure in  this  sudden  renown  of  his  Pupil,  could  in  no  wise  be 
persuaded  to  revoke  or  soften  his  harsh  Order,  which  “ for- 
bade the  Poet  henceforth,  under  pain  of  military  imprison- 
ment, either  to  write  anything  poetic  or  to  communicate  the 
same  to  foreign  persons  ” ’ (non-Wurtembergers).  ‘ In  vain 
were  all  attempts  of  Schiller  to  obtain  his  discharge  from 
Military  Service  and  his  “ Entschwabung  ” (Un-SuuMzning)  ; 
such  petitions  had  only  for  result  new  sharper  rebukes  and 
hard  threatening  expressions,  to  which  the  mournful  fate  of 
Scliubart  in  the  Castle  of  Hohenasperg  1 formed  a too  ques- 
tionable background. 

1 See  Appendix,  infrd. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


221 


‘ Thus  by  degrees  there  ripened  in  the  strong  soul  of  this 
young  man  the  determination  to  burst  these  laming  fetters  of 
his  genius,  by  flight  from  despotic  AVurtemberg  altogether  ; 
and,  in  some  friendlier  counts®,  gain  for  himself  the  freedom 
without  which  his  spiritual  development  was  impossible. 
Only  to  one  friend,  who  clung  to  him  with  almost  enthusiastic 
devotion,  did  he  impart  his  secret.  This  was  Johann  Andreas 
Streicher  of  Stuttgart,  who  intended  to  go  next  year  to  Ham- 
burg, and  there,  under  Bach’s  guidance,  study  music  ; but 
declared  himself  ready  to  accompany  Schiller  even  now,  since 
it  had  become  urgent.  Except  to  this  trustworthy  friend, 
Schiller  had  imparted  his  plan  to  his  elder  Sister  Christophine 
alone  ; and  she  had  not  only  approved  of  the  sad  measure, 
but  had  undertaken  also  to  prepare  their  Mother  for  it.  The 
Father  naturally  had  to  be  kept  dark  on  the  subject  ; all  the 
more  that,  if  need  were,  he  might  pledge  his  word  as  an 
Officer  that  he  had  known  nothing  of  his  Son’s  intention. 

‘ Schiller  went  out,  in  company  of  Madame  Meier,  AATfe  of 
the  Regisseur  (Theatre-manager)  at  Mannheim,  a native  of 
Stuttgart,  and  of  this  Streicher,  one  last  time  to  Solitude,  to 
have  one  more  look  of  it  and  of  his  dear  ones  there  ; especially 
to  soothe  and  calm  his  Mother.  On  the  way,  which  they 
travelled  on  foot,  Schiller  kept  up  a continual  discourse  about 
the  Mannheim  Theatre  and  its  interests,  without  betraying 
his  secret  to  Madame  Meier.  The  Father  received  these  wel- 
come guests  with  frank  joy  ; and  gave  to  the  conversation, 
which  at  first  hung  rather  embarrassed,  a happy  turn  by 
getting  into  talk,  with  cheery  circumstantiality,  of  the  grand 
Pleasure-Hunt,  of  the  Play  and  of  the  Illumination,  which 
were  to  take  place,  in  honour  of  the  Pussian  Grand-Prince, 
afterwards  Czar  Paul,  and  his  Bride,  the  Duke  of  AViirtem- 
berg’s  Niece,  on.  the  17th  September  instant,  at  Solitude. 
Far  other  was  the  poor  Mother’s  mood  ; she  was  on  the  edge 
of  betraying  herself,  in  seeing  the  sad  eyes  of  her  Son  ; and 
she  could  not  speak  for  emotion.  The  presence  of  Streicher 
and  a Stranger  with  whom  the  elder  Schiller  was  carrying  on 
a,  to  him,  attractive  conversation,  permitted  Mother  and  Son 
to  withdraw  speedily  and  unremarked.  Not  till  after  an  hour 


222 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


did  Schiller  reappear,  alone  now,  to  the  company  ; neither 
this  circumstance,  nor  Schiller’s  expression  of  face,  yet  strik- 
ing the  preoccuppied  Father.  Though  to  the  observant 
Streicher,  his  wet  red  eyes  betrayed  how  painful  the  parting 
must  have  been.  Gradually  on  the  way  back  to  Stuttgart, 
amid  general  talk  of  the  three,  Schiller  regained  some  com- 
posure and  cheerfulness. 

‘ The  bitter  sorrow  of  this  hour  of  parting  renewed  itself  yet 
once  in  Schiller’s  soul,  when  on  the  flight  itself,  about  mid- 
night of  the  17th.  In  effect  it  was  these  same  festivities  that 
had  decided  the  young  men’s  time  and  scheme  of  journey ; 
and  under  the  sheltering  noise  of  which  their  plan  was  luck- 
ily executed.  Towards  midnight  of  the  above-said  day,  when 
the  Castle  of  Solitude,  with  all  its  surroundings,  was  beaming 
in  full  splendour  of  illumination,  there  rolled  past,  almost 
rubbing  elbows  with  it,  the  humble  Schiller  Vehicle  from 
Stuttgart,  which  bore  the  fugitive  Poet  with  his  true  Friend 
on  their  way.  Schiller  pointed  out  to  his  Friend  the  spot 
where  his  Parents  lived,  and,-  with  a half-suppressed  sigh  and 
a woe-begone  exclamation,  “Oh,  my  Mother!”  sank  back 
upon  his  seat.’ 

Mannheim,  the  goal  of  their  flight,  is  in  Baden-Baden,  un- 
der another  Sovereign  ; lies  about  80  miles  to  >\w.  of  Stutt- 
gart. Their  dreary  journey  lasted  two  days, — arrival  not  till 
deep  in  the  night  of  the  second.  Their  united  stock  of  money 
amounted  to  51  gulden, — Schiller  23,  Streicher  28, — 51.  6s. 
in  all.  Streicher  subsequently  squeezed  out  from  home  3 1. 
more  ; and  that  appears  to  have  been  their  sum-total, 1 

‘ Great  was  the  astonishment  and  great  the  wrath  of  the 
Father,  when  at  length  he  understood  that  his  Son  had 
broken  the  paternal,  written  Bond,  and  withdrawn  himself 
by  flight  from  the  Ducal  Service.  He  dreaded,  not  without 
reason,  the  heavy  consequences  of  so  rash  an  action  ; and  a 
thousand  gnawing  anxieties  bestormed  the  heart  of  the 
worthy  man.  Might  not  the  I)uhe,  in  the  first  outburst  of 
his  indignation,  overwhelm  forever  the  happiness  of  their 
Family,  which  there  was  nothing  but  the  income  of  his  post 
1 Schwab,  Schiller's  Lebcn. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


223 


that  supported  in  humble  competence  ? And  what  a lot 
stood  before  the  Son  himself,  if  he  were  caught  in  flight,  or 
if,  what  was  nowise  improbable,  his  delivery  back  was  re- 
quired and  obtained  ? Sure  enough,  there  had  risen  on  the 
otherwise  serene  heaven  of  the  Schiller  Family,  a threatening 
thundercloud ; which,  any  dayr,  might  discharge  itself,  bring- 
ing destruction  on  their  heads. 

‘ The  thing,  however,  passed  away  in  merciful  peace.  What- 
ever may  have  been  the  Duke’s  motives  or  inducements  to 
let  the  matter,  in  spite  of  his  embitterment,  silently  drop, — 
whether  his  bright  festal  humour  in  presence  of  those  high 
kinsfolk,  or  the  noble  frankness  with  which  the  Runaway  first 
of  all,  to  save  his  Family,  had  in  a respectful  missive,  dated 
from  Mannheim,  explained  to  his  Princely  Educator  the  ne- 
cessity of  his  flight ; or  the  expectation,  flattering  to  the 
Ducal  pride,  that  the  future  greatness  of  his  Pupil  might  be 
a source  of  glory  to  him  and  his  Kaii’s-School : enough,  on 
his  part,  there  took  place  no  kind  of  hostile  step  against  the 
Poet,  and  still  less  against  his  Family.  Captain  Schiller  again 
breathed  freer  when  he  saw  himself  delivered  from  his  most 
crushing  anxiety  on  this  side  ; but  there  remained  still  a 
sharp  sting  in  his  wounded  heart.  His  military  feeling  of 
honour  was  painfully  hurt  by  the  thought  that  they  might 
now  look  upon  his  Son  as  a deserter ; and  withal  the  future 
of  this  voluntary  Exile  appeared  so  uncertain  and  wavering, 
that  it  did  not  offer  the  smallest  justification  of  so  great  a 
risk.  By  degrees,  however,  instead  of  anger  and  blame  there 
rose  in  him  the  most  sympathetic  anxiety  for  the  poor  Son’s 
fate  ; to  whom,  from  want  of  a free,  firm  and  assuring  posi- 
tion in  life,  all  manner  of  contradictions  and  difficulties  must 
needs  arise. 

4 And  Schiller  did  actually,  at  Mannheim,  find  himself  in  a 
bad  and  difficult  position.  The  Superintendent  of  the  cele- 
brated Mannheim  Theatre,  the  greatly  powerful  Imperial 
Baron  von  Dalberg,  with  whom  Schiller,  since  the  bringing 
out  of  his  Bobbers,  had  stood  in  lively'  correspondence,  drew 
back  when  Schiller  himself  was  here  ; and  kept  the  Poet  at  a 
distance  as  a political  Fugitive ; leaving  him  to  shift  as  he 


224 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


could.  In  vain  liad  Schiller  explained  to  him,  in  manly  open 
words,  his  economic  straits,  and  begged  from  him  a loan  of 
300  gulden’  (30 l.)  ‘to  pay  therewith  a pressing  debt  in  Stutt- 
gart, and  drag  himself  along,  and  try  to  get  started  ’ in  the 
world.  Dalberg  returned  the  Fiesco,  Schiller’s  new  republican 
Tragedy,  which  had  been  sent  him,  with  the  declaration  that 
he  could  advance  no  money  on  the  Fiesco  in  its  present  form  ; 
the  Piece  must  first  be  remodelled  to  suit  the  stage.  During 
this  remodelling,  which  the  otherwise  so  passionately  vivid 
and  hopeful  Poet  began  without  murmur,  he  lived  entirely  on 
the  journey-money  that  had  been  saved  up  by  the  faithful 
Streicher,  who  would  on  no  account  leave  him.’ 

What  became  of  this  good  Streicher  afterwards,  I have  in- 
quired considerably,  but  with  very  little  success.  On  the  total 
exhaustion  of  their  finance,  Schiller  and  he  had  to  part  com- 
pany,—Schiller  for  refuge  at  Bauerbach,  as  will  soon  be 
seen.  Streicher  continued  about  Mannheim,  not  as  Schiller’s 
fellow-lodger  any  longer,  but  always  at  his  hand,  passionately 
eager’  to  serve  him  with  all  his  faculties  by  night  or  by  day  ; 
and  they  did  not  part  finally  till  Schiller  quitted  Mannheim, 
two  years  hence,  for  Leipzig.  After  which  they  never  met 
again.  Streicher,  in  Mannheim,  seems  to  have  subsisted  by 
his  musical  talent ; and  to  have  had  some  connection  with  the 
theatre  in  that  capacity.  In  similar  dim  positions,  with  what 
shiftings,  adventures  and  vicissitudes  is  quite  unknown  to  me, 
he  long  survived  Schiller,  and,  at  least  fifty  years  after  these 
Mannheim  struggles,  wrote  some  Book  of  bright  and  loving 
Reminiscences  concerning  him,  the  exact  title  of  which  I can 
nowhere  find, — though  passages  from  it  are  copied  by  Biog- 
rapher Schwab  here  and  there.  His  affection  for  Schiller 
is  of  the  nature  of  worship  rather,  of  constant  adoration  ; and 
probably  formed  the  sunshine  to  poor  Streicher’s  life.  Schiller 
nowhere  mentions  him  in  his  writings  or  correspondences, 
after  that  final  parting  at  Mannheim,  1784. 

‘The  necessities  of  the  two  Friends  reached  by  and  by 
such  a height  that  Schiller  had  to  sell  his  Watch,  although 
they  had  already  for  several  weeks  been  subsisting  on  loans. 
To  all  which  now  came  Dalberg’s  overwhelming  message,  that 


SUPPLEMENT. 


225 


even  this  Bemodelling  of  Fiesco  could  not  be  serviceable  ; and 
of  course  could  not  have  money  paid  for  it.  Schiller  there- 
upon, at  once  resolute  what  to  do,  walked  off  to  the  worthy 
Bookseller  Schwan,’  with  whom  he  was  already  on  a trustful, 
even  grateful  footing  ; ‘and  sold  him  his  ms.  at  one  louis-d’or 
the  sheet.  At  the  same  time,  too,  he  recognised  the  neces- 
sity of  quitting  Mannheim,  and  finding  a new  asylum  in  Sax- 
ony ; seeing,  withal,  his  farther  continuance  here  might  be  as 
dangerous  for  him  as  it  was  a matter  of  apprehension  to  his 
Friends.  For  although  the  Duke  of  Wurtemberg  undertook 
nothing  that  was  hostile  to  him,  and  his  Family  at  Solitude 
experienced  no  annoyance,  yet  the  impetuous  Prince  might, 
any  day,  take  it  into  his  head  to  have  him  put  in  prison.  In 
the  ever-livelier  desire  after  a securely-hidden  place  of  abode, 
where  he  might  execute  in  peace  his  poetic  plans  and  enter- 
prises, Schiller  suddenly  took  up  an  earlier  purpose,  which 
had  been  laid  aside. 

‘ In  the  Stuttgart  time  lie  had  known  'Wilhelm  von  Wolzo- 
gen,  by  and  by  his  Brother-in-law  ’ (they  married  two  sisters), 
‘ who,  with  three  Brothers,  had  been  bred  in  the  Karl’s 
School.  The  two  had,  indeed,  during  the  academic  time, 
Wolzogen  being  some  years  younger,  had  few  points  of  con- 
tact, and  were  not  intimate.  But  now  on  the  appearance  of 
the  Robbers , Wolzogen  took  a cordial  affection  and  enthusiasm 
for  the  widely-celebrated  Poet,  and  on  closer  acquaintanoe 
with  Schiller,  also  affected  his  Mother, — who  as  Widow,  for 
her  three  Sons’  sake,  lived  frequently  at  Stuttgart,- — with  a 
deep  and  zealous  sympathy  in  Schiller’s  fate.  Schiller  had,  with 
a truly  childlike  trust,  confided  himself  to  this  excellent  Lady, 
and  after  his  Arrest, — a bitter  consequence  of  his  secret  visit 
to  Mannheim, — had  confessed  to  her  his  purpose  to  run  away. 
Frau  von  Wolzogen,  who  feared  no  sacrifice  when  the  question 
was  of  the  fortune  of  her  friends,  had  then  offered  him  her 
family  mansion,  Bauerbach  near  Meiningen,  as  a place  of 
refuge.  Schiller’s  notion  had  also  been  to  fly  thither  ; though, 
deceived  by  false  hopes,  he  changed  that  purpose.'  He  now 
wrote  at  once  to  Stuttgart,  and  announced  to  Frau  von  Wol- 
zogen his  wish  to  withdraw  for  some  time  to  Bauerbach.’ 
15 


226 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


To  which,  as  is  well  known,  the  assent  was  ready  and  zeal- 
ous. 

‘Before  quitting  Mannheim,  Schiller  could  not  resist  the 
longing-  wish  to  see  his  Parents  yet  one  time;  and  wrote  to  them 
accordingly,  19  Nov.  1782,  in  visible  haste  and  excitement : 

“ Best  Parents,— As  I am  at  present  in  Mannheim,  and  am 
to  go  away  forever  in  five  days,  I wished  to  prepare  for  myself 
and  you  the  one  remaining  satisfaction  of  seeing  one  another 
once  more.  To-day  is  the  19th,  on  the  21st  you  receive  this 
Letter  ; — if  you  therefore,  without  the  least  delay  (that  is  in- 
dispensable), leave  Stuttgart,  you  might  on  the  22d  be  at  the 
Post-house  in  Bretten,  which  is  about  half  way  from  Mann- 
heim, and  where  you  would  find  me.  I think  it  would  be  best 
if  Mamma  and  Christophine,  under  the  pretext  of  going  to 
Ludwigsburg  to  Wolzogen,  should  make  this  journey.  Take 
the  Frau  Vischerin  ” (a  Captain’s  Widow,  sung  of  under  the 
name  of  “Laura,”  with  whom  he  had  last  lodged  in  Stutt- 
gart) “ and  also  Wolzogen  with  you,  as  I wish  to  speak  with 
both  of  them,  perhaps  for  the  last  time,  Wolzogen  excepted. 
I will  give  you  a Karolin  as  journey-money  ; but  not  till  I see 
you  at  Bretten.  By  the  prompt  fulfilment  of  my  Prayer,  I 
will  perceive  whether  is  still  dear  to  you 

“Your-  ever-grateful  Son, 

“ Schiller.” 

From  Mannheim,  Bauerbach  or  Meiningen  lies  about  120 
miles  n.e.  ; and  from  Stuttgart  almost  as  far  straight  North. 
Bretten,  ‘ a little  town  on  a hill,  celebrated  as  Melancthon’s 
Birthplace,  his  Father’s  house  still  standing  there,’  is  some  35 
miles  s.e.  of  Mannheim,  and  as  far  n.  w.  from  Stuttgart.  From 
Mannheim,  in  this  wise,  it  is  not  at  all  on  the  road  to  Meinin- 
gen, though  only  a few  miles  more  remote  in  direct  distance. 
Schiller’s  purpose  had  been,  after  this  affectionate  interview, 
to  turn  at  once  leftward  and  make  for  Meiningen,  by  what 
road  or  roads  there  were  from  Bretten  thither.  Schiller's  poor 
guinea  (Karolin)  was  not  needed  on  this  occasion  ; the  ren- 
dezvous at  Bretten  being  found  impossible  or  inexpedient  at 
the  Stuttgart  end  of  it.  Our  Author  continues  : 

‘ Although  this  meeting,  on  which  the  loving  Son  and 
Brother  wished  to  spend  his  last  penny,  did  not  take  effect ; 


SUPPLEMENT. 


227 


yet  this  mournful  longing  of  his,  evident  from  the  Letter,  and 
from  the  purpose  itself,  must  have  touched  the  Father’s  heart 
with  somewhat  of  a reconciliatory  feeling.  Schiller  Senior 
writes  accordingly,  8 December  1782,  the  very  day  after  his 
Son’s  arrival  in  Bauerbach,  to  Bookseller  Schwan  in  Mannheim  : 
“ I have  not  noticed  here  the  smallest  symptom  that  his  Du- 
cal Durchlaucht  has  any  thought  of  having  my  Son  searched 
for  and  prosecuted  ; and  indeed  his  post  here  has  long  since 
been  filled  up  ; a circumstance  which  visibly  indicates  that 
they  can  do  without  him.”  This  Letter  to  Schwan  concludes 
in  the  following  words,  which  are  characteristic:  “He  (my 
Son)  has,  by  his  untimely  withdrawal,  against  the  advice  of 
his  true  friends,  plunged  himself  into  this  difficult  position  ; 
and  it  will  profit  him  in  soul  and  body  that  he  feel  the  pain 
of  it,  and  thereby  become  wiser  for  the  future.  I am  not 
afraid,  however,  that  want  of  actual  necessaries  should  come 
upon  him,  for  in  such  case  I should  feel  myself  obliged  to 
lend  a hand.” 

‘ And  in  effect  Schiller,  during  his  abode  in  Bauerbach,  did 
once  or  twice  receive  little  subventions  of  money  from  his 
Father,  although  never  without  earnest  and  not  superfluous 
admonition  to  become  more  frugal,  and  take  better  heed  in 
laying-out  his'money.  For  economics  were,  by  Schiller’s  owm 
confession,  “not  at  all  his  talent ; it  cost  him  less,”  he  says, 
“ to  execute  a whole  conspiracy  and  tragedy-plot  than  to  ad- 
just his  scheme  of  housekeeping.” — At  this  time  it  wras  never 
the  Father  himself  who  wrote  to  Schiller,  but  always  Christo- 
jihine,  by  his  commission  ; and  on  the  other  hand,  Schiller  too 
never  risked  writing  directly  to  his  Father,  as  he  felt  but  too 
well  how  little  on  his  part  had  been  done  to  justify  the  flight 
in  his  Father’s  eyes.  He  writes  accordingly,  likewise  on  that 
8tli  December  1782,  to  his  Publisher  Schwan  : “ If  you  can 
accelerate  the  printing  of  my  Fiesco,  you  ’will  very  much 
oblige  me  by  doing  so.  You  know  that  nothing  but  the  pro- 
hibition to  become  an  Author  drove  me  out  of  the  AY iirtem- 
berg  service.  If  I now,  on  this  side,  don’t  soon  let  my  native 
country  hear  of  me,  they  will  say  the  step  I took  was  use- 
less and  without  real  motive.” 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


1 In  Bauerbach  Schiller  lived  about  eight  months,  under  the 
name  of  Doctor  Ritter,  unknown  to  everybody  ; and  only  the 
Court-Librarian,  Reinwald,  in  Meiningen,  afterwards  his 
Brother-in-law,’  as  we  shall  see,  ‘ in  whom  he  found  a solid 
friend,  had  been  trusted  by  Frau  von  Wolzogen  with  the  name 
and  true  situation  of  the  mysterious  stranger.  The  most  of 
Schiller’s  time  here  was  spent  in  dramatic  labours,  enterprises 
and  dreams.  The  outcome  of  all  these  were  his  third  civic 
Tragedy,  Louise  Miller,  or  Eabale  unci  Liebe,  which  was  fin- 
ished in  February  1783,  and  the  settling  on  Don  Carlos  as  a 
new  tragic  subject.  Many  reasons,  meanwhile,  in  the  last 
eight  months,  had  been  pushing  Schiller  into  the  determina- 
tion to  leave  his  asylum,  and  anew  turn  towards  Mannheim. 
A passionate,  though  unreturned  attachment  to  Charlotte  von 
Wolzogen  at  that  time  filled  Schiller’s  soul ; and  his  removal 
therefore  must  both  to  Frau  von  Wolzogen  for  her  own  and 
her  Daughter’s  sake,  and  to  Schiller  himself,  have  appeared 
desirable.  It  was  Frau  von  Wolzogen’s  own  advice  to  him  to 
go  for  a short  time  to  Mannheim,  there  to  get  into  clear  terms 
with  Dalberg,  who  had  again  begun  corresponding  with  him  : 
so,  in  July  1783,  Schiller  bade  his  solitary,  and,  by  this  time 
dear  and  loved,  abode  a hasty  adieu  ; and,  much  contrary  to 
fond  hope,  never  saw  it  again. 

‘In  September  1783,  his  bargainings  with  Dalberg  had 
come  to  this  result,  That  for  a fixed  salary  of  500  gulden,’  50?. 
a year,  ‘ he  was  appointed  Theatre-Poet  here.  By  this  means, 
to  use  his  own  words,  the  way  was  open  to  him  gradually  to 
pay-off  a considerable  portion  of  his  debts,  and  so  escape  from 
the  drowning  whirlpool,  and  remain  an  honest  man.  Now, 
furthermore,  he  thought  it  permissible  to  show  himself  to  his 
Family  with  a certain  composure  of  attitude  ; and  opened 
straightway  a regular  correspondence  with  his  Parents  again. 
And  Captain  Schiller  volunteers  a stiff-starched  but  true  and 
earnest  Letter  to  the  Baron  Dalberg  himself ; most  humbly 
thanking  that  gracious  nobleman  for  such  beneficent  favour 
shown  my  poor  Son  ; and  begs  withal  the  far  stranger  favour 
that  Dalberg  would  have  the  extreme  goodness  to  appoint  the 
then  inexperienced  young  man  some  true  friend  who  might 


SUPPLEMENT. 


229 


help  him  to  arrange  his  housekeeping,  and  in  moral  things 
might  be  his  Mentor  ! 

‘ Soon  after  this,  an  intermittent  fever  threw  the  Poet  on  a 
sick-bed  ; and  lamed  him  above  five  weeks  from  all  capacity 
of  mental  labour.  Not  even  in  June  of  the  following  year  was 
the  disease  quite  overcome.  Visits,  acquaintanceships,  all 
kinds  of  amusements,  and  more  than  anything  else,  over- 
hasty  attempts  at  work,  delayed  his  cure  ; — so  that  his  Father 
had  a perfect  right  to  bring  before  him  his,  Schiller’s,  own 
blame  in  the  matter  : “ That  thou  ” ’ ( Er , He  ; the  then  usual 
tone  towards  servants  and  children)  ‘ “ for  eight  whole  months 
hast  weltered  about  with  intermittent  fever,  surely  that  does 
little  honour  to  thy  study  of  medicine  ; and  thou  wouldst, 
with  great  justice,  have  poured  the  bitterest  reproaches  on 
any  Patient  who,  in  a case  like  thine,  had  not  held  himself  to 
the  diet  and  regimen  that  were  prescribed  to  him  ! ” — 

‘ In  Autumn  1783,  there  seized  Schiller  so  irresistible  a 
longing  to  see  his  kindred  again,  that  he  repeatedly  expressed 
to  his  Father  the  great  wish  he  had  for  a meeting,  either  at 
Mannheim  or  some  other  place  outside  the  W iirtemberg  bor- 
ders. To  the  fulfilment  of  this  scheme  there  were,  however, 
in  the  sickness  which  his  Mother  had  fallen  into,  in  the  fet- 
tered position  of  the  Father,  and  in  the  rigorously  frugal 
economies  of  the  Family,  insuperable  obstacles.  Whereupon 
his  Father  made  him  the  proposal,  that  he,  Friedrich,  either 
himself  or  by  him,  the  Captain,  should  apply  to  the  Duke 
Karl’s  Serene  Highness  ; and  petition  him  for  permission  to 
return  to  his  country  and  kindred.  As  Schiller  to  this  an- 
swered nothing,  Christophine  time  after  time  pressiugly  re- 
peated to  him  the  Father’s  proposal.  At  the  risk  of  again 
angering  his  Father,  Schiller  gave,  in  his  answer  to  Christo- 
phine, of  1st  January  1781,  the  decisive  declaration  that  his 
honour  would  frightfully  suffer  if  he,  without  connection  with 
any  other  Prince,  without  character  and  lasting  means  of  sup- 
port, after  his  forceful  withdrawal  from  Wurtemberg,  should 
again  show  face  there.  “ That  my  Father,”  adds  he,  as 
ground  of  this  refusal,  “give  his  name  to  such  a petition  -can 
help  me  little  ; for  every  one  will  at  once,  so  long  as  I cannot 


230 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIE  1)1110  11  LG  FULLER. 


make  it  plain  that  I no  longer  need  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg, 
suspect  in  a return,  obtained  on  petition  (by  myself  or  by 
another  is  all  one),  a desire  to  get  settled  in  Wiirtemberg 
again.  Sister,  consider  with  serious  attention  these  circum- 
stances ; for  the  happiness  of  thy  Brother  may,  by  rash  haste 
in  this  matter,  suffer  an  incurable  wound.  Great  part  of  Ger- 
many knows  my  relations  to  your  Duke  and  of  the  way  I left 
him.  People ‘have  interested  themselves  for  me  at  the  ex- 
pense of  this  Duke  ; how  horribly  -would  the  respect  of  the 
public  (and  on  this  depends  my  whole  future  fortune),  how 
miserably  would  my  own  honour  sink  by  the  suspicion  that  I 
had  sought  this  return  ; that  my  circumstances  had  forced 
me  to  repent  my  former  step  ; that  the  support  which  I had 
sought  in  the  wide  world  had  misgone,  and  I was  seeking  it 
anew  in  my  Birthland ! The  open  manlike  boldness,  -which  I 
showed  in  my  forceful  withdrawal,  uTould  get  the  name  of  a 
childish  outburst  of  mutiny,  a stupid  bit  of  impotent  bluster, 
if  I do  not  make  it  good.  Love  for  my  dear  ones,  longiug  for 
my  Fatherland  might  perhaps  excuse  me  in  the  heart  of  this 
or  the  other  candid  man ; but  the  world  makes  no  account  of 
all  that. 

“For  the  rest,  if  my  Father  is  determined  to  do  it,  I cannot 
hinder  him  ; only  this  I say  to  thee,  Sister,  that  in  case  even 
the  Duke  would  permit  it,  I will  not  show  myself  on  Wiir- 
temberg ground  till  I have  at  least  a character  (for  which 
object  I shall  zealously  labour)  ; and  that  in  case  the  Duke 
refuses,  I shall  not  be  able  to  restrain  myself  from  avenging 
the  affront  thereby  put  upon  me  by  open  fooleries  (sottisen) 
and  expressions  of  myself  in  print.” 

‘ The  intended  Petition  to  the  Duke  was  not  drawn  out, — 
and  Father  Schiller  overcame  his  anger  on  the  matter ; as, 
on  closer  consideration  of  the  Son’s  aversion  to  this  step,  he 
could  not  wholly  disapprove  him.  Yet  he  did  not  hide  from 
Schiller  Junior  the  steadfast  wish  that  he.  would  in  some  way 
or  other  try  to  draw  near  to  the  Duke  ; at  any  rate  he,  Father 
Schiller,  “ hoped  to  God  that  their  parting  would  not  last  for- 
ever ; and  that,  in  fine,  he  might  still  live  to  see  his  only  Son 
near  him  again.” 


SUPPLEMENT. 


231 


‘ In  Mannheim  Schiller’s  financial  position,  in  spite  of  his 
earnest  purpose  to  manage  wisely,  grew  by  degrees  worse 
rather  than  better.  Owing  to  the  many  little  expenses  laid 
upon  him  by  his  connections  in  society,  his  income  would 
not  suffice  ; and  the  cash-box  was  not  seldom  run  so  low  that 
he  had  not  wherewithal  to  support  himself  next  day.  Of  as- 
sistance from  home,  with  the  rigorous  income  of  his  Father, 
which  scarcely  amounted  to  40/.  a year,  there  could  nothing 
be  expected  ; and  over  and  above,  the  Father  himself  had,  in 
this  respect,  very  clearly  spoken  his  mind.  “Parents  and 
Sisters,”  said  Schiller  Senior,  “have  as  just  a right  as  they 
have  a confidence,  in  cases  of  necessity,  to  expect  help  and 
support  from  a Son.”  To  fill  to  overflowing  the  measure  of 
the  Poet’s  economical  distress,  there  now  stept  forth  suddenly 
some  secret  creditors  of  his  in  Stuttgart,  demanding  imme- 
diate payment.  Whereupon,  in  quick  succession,  there  came 
to  Captain  Schiller,  to  his  great  terror,  two  drafts  from  the 
Son,  requiring  of  him,  the  one  10/.,  the  other  51.  The  Captain 
after  stern  reflection,  determined  at  last  to  be  good  for  both 
demands  ; but  wrote  to  the  Son  that  he  only  did  so  in  order 
that  his,  the  Son’s,  labour  might  not  be  disturbed  ; and  in  the 
confident  anticipation  that  the  Son,  regardful  of  his  poor  Sis- 
ters and  their  bit  of  portion,  would  not  leave  him  in  the  lurch. 

‘ But  Schiller,  whom  still  other  debts  in  Stuttgart,  un- 
known to  his  Father,  were  pressing  hard,  could  only  repay 
the  smaller  of  these  drafts  ; and  thus  the  worthy  father  saw 
himself  compelled  to  pay  the  larger,  the  10/.,  out  of  the  sav- 
ings he  had  made  for  outfit  of  his  Daughters.  Whereupon, 
as  was  not  undeserved,  he  took  liis  Son  tightly  to  task,  and 
wrote  to  him:  “As  long  as  thou,  my  Son,  skalt  make  thy 
reckoning  on  resources  that  are  still  to  come,  and  therefore 
art  still  subject  to  chance  and  mischance,  so  long  wilt  thou 
continue  in  thy  mess  of  embarrassments.  Furthermore,  as 
long  as  thou  thinkest,  This  gulden  or  batzen  (shilling  or  far- 
thing) can’t  help  me  to  get  over  it ; so  long  will  thy  debts 
become  never  the  smaller  : and,  what  were  a sorrow"  to  me, 
thou  wilt  not  be  able,  after  a heavy  labour  of  head  got  done,  to 
recreate  thyself  in  the  society  of  other  good  men.  But,  withal. 


232 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


to  make  recreation-days  of  that  kind  more  numerous  than 
work-days,  that  surely  will  not  turn  out  well.  Best  Son,  thy 
abode  in  Bauerbach  has  been  of  that  latter  kind.  Hinc  illce 
lacrymce  ! For  these  thou  art  now  suffering,  and  that  not  by 
accident.  The  embarrassment  thou  now  art  in  is  verily  a 
work  of  Higher  Providence,  to  lead  thee  off  from  too  great 
trust  in  thy  own  force  ; to  make  thee  soft  and  contrite  ; that, 
laying  aside  all  selfwill,  thou  mayest  follow  more  the  counsel 
of  thy  Father  and  other  true  friends  ; must  meet  every  one 
with  due  respectful  courtesy  and  readiness  to  oblige  ; and  be- 
come ever  more  convinced  that  our  most  gracious  Duke,  in 
his  restrictive  plans,  meant  well  with  thee  ; and  that  alto- 
gether thy  position  and  outlooks  had  now  been  better,  hadst 
thou  complied,  and  continued  in  thy  country.  Many  a time 
I find  thou  hast  wayward  humours,  that  make  thee  to  thy 
truest  friend  scarcely  endurable  ; stiff  ways  which  repel  the 
best-wishing  man  ; — -for  example,  when  I sent  thee  my  ex- 
cellent old  friend  Herr  Amtmann  Cramer  from  Altdorf  near 
Speier,  who  had  come  to  Herr  Hofrath  Schwan’s  in  the  end 
of  last  year,  thy  reception  of  him  was  altogether  dry  and 
stingy,  though  by  my  Letter  I had  given  thee  so  good  an  op- 
portunity to  seek  the  friendship  of  this  honourable,  rational 
and' influential  man  (who  has  no  children  of  his  own),  and  to 
try  whether  he  might  not  have  been  of  help  to  thee.  Thou 
wilt  do  well,  I think,  to  try  and  make  good  this  fault  on 
another  opportunity.” 

‘At  the  same  time  the  old  man  repeatedly  pressed  him  to 
return  to  Medicine,  and  graduate  in  Heidelberg  : “ a theatre- 
poet  in  Germany,”  he  signified,  “ was  but  a small  light ; and 
as  he,  the  Son,  with  all  his  Three  Pieces,  had  not  made  any 
footing  for  himself,  what  was  to  be  expected  of  the  future 
ones,  which  might  not  be  of  equal  strength  ! Doctorship,  on 
the  other  hand,  would  give  him  a sure  income  and  reputation 
as  well.” — Schiller  himself  was  actually  determined  to  follow 
his  Father’s  advice  as  to  Medicine ; but  this  project  and 
others  of  the  same,  which  were  sometimes  taken  up,  went  to 
nothing,  now  and  always,  for  want  of  money  to  begin  with. 

■ Amid  these  old  tormenting  hindrances,  affronts  and  em- 


SUPPLEMENT. 


233 


barrassments,  Schiller  had  also  many  joyful  experiences,  to 
which  even  his  Father  was  not  wholly  indifferent.  To  these 
belong,  besides  many  others,  his  reception  into  the  Kur- 
pfdlzische  Deutsche  Gesellschaft,’  German  Society  of  the  Elec- 
toral Palatinate,  ‘ of  this  year  ; which  he  himself  calls  a great 
step  for  his  establishment ; as  well  as  the  stormy  applause 
with  which  his  third  Piece,  Kabale  und  Liebe,  came  upon  the 
boards,  in  March  following.  His  Father  acknowledged  re- 
ceipt of  this  latter  Work  with  the  words,  “ That  I possess  a 
copy  of  thy  new'  Tragedy  I tell  nobody  ; for  I dare  not,  on  ac- 
count of  certain  passages,  let  any  one  notice  that  it  has 
pleased  me.”  Nevertheless  the  Piece,  as  already  The  Bobbers 
had  done,  came  in  Stuttgart  also  to  the  acting  point ; and 
was  received  with  loud  approval.  Schiller  now,  with  new 
pleasure  and  inspiration,  laid  hands  on  his  Don  Carlos  ; and 
with  the  happy  progress  of  this  Work,  there  began  for  him  a 
more  confident  temper  of  mind,  and  a clearing-up  of  horizon 
and  outlook  ; which  henceforth  only  transiently  yielded  to 
embarrassments  in  his  outer  life. 

‘Soon  after  this,  however,  there  came  upon  him  an  unex- 
pected event  so  suddenly  and  painfully  that,  in  his  extremest 
excitement  and  misery,  he  fairly  hurt  the  feelings  of  his  Fa- 
ther by  unreasonable  requirements  of  him,  and  reproaches  on 
their  being  refused.  A principal  Stuttgart  Cautioner  of  his, 
incessantly  pressed  upon  by  the  stringent  measures  of  the 
creditors  there,  had  fairly  run  off,  saved  himself  by  flight, 
from  Stuttgart,  and  been  seized  in  Mannheim,  and  there  put 
in  jail.  Were  not  this  Prisoner  at  once  got  out,  Schiller's 
honour  and  peace  of  conscience  were  at  stake.  And  so,  be- 
fore his  (properly  Streicher’s)  Landlord,  the  Architect  Holzel, 
could  get  together  the  required  300  gulden,  and  save  this  un- 
lucky friend,  the  half-desperate  Poet  had  written  home,  and 
begged  from  his  Father  that  indispensable  sum.  And  on  the 
Father’s  clear  refusal,  had  answered  him  with  a very  unfilial 
Letter.  Not  till  after  the  lapse  of  seven  weeks,  did  the  Fa- 
ther reply  ; in  a Letter,  which,  as  a luminous  memorial  of  his 
faithful  honest  father-heart  and  of  his  considerate  just  char- 
acter as  a man,  deserves  insertion  here  : 


234: 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


“ Very  unwilling,”  writes  he,  “ am  I to  proceed  to  the  an- 
swering of  thy  last  Letter,  21st  November,  of  the  past  year  ; 
which  I could  rather  wish  never  to  have  read  than  now  to 
taste  again  the  bitterness  contained  there.  Not  enough  that 
thou,  in  the  beginning  of  the  said  Letter,  very  undeservedly 
reproachest  me,  as  if  I could  and  should  have  raised  the  300 
gulden  for  thee, — thou  continuest  to  blame  me,  in  a very 
painful  way,  for  my  inquiries  about  thee  on  this  occasion. 
Dear  Son,  the  relation  between  a good.  Father  and  his  Son 
fallen  into  such  a strait,  who,  although  gifted  with  many 
faculties  of  mind,  is  still,  in  all  that  belongs  to  true  greatness 
and  contentment,  much  mistaken  and  astray,  can  never  justify 
the  Son  in  taking  up  as  an  injury  what  the  Father  has  said 
out  of  love,  out  of  consideration  and  experience  of  his  own, 
and  meant  only  for  his  Son’s  good.  As  to  what  concerns 
those  300  gulden,  every  one,  alas,  who  knows  my  position 
here,  knows  that  it  cannot  be  possible  for  me  to  have  even  50 
gulden,  not  to  speak  of  300,  before  me  in  store  ; and  that  I 
should  borrow  such  a sum,  to  the  still  further  disadvantage 
of  my  other  children,  for  a Son,  who  of  the  much  that  he  has 
promised  me  has  been  able  to  perform  so  little, — there,  for 
certain,  were  I an  unjust  Father.”  Farther  on,  the  old  man 
takes  him  up  on  another  side,  a private  family  affair.  Schil- 
ler had,  directly  and  through  others,  in  reference  to  the  pros- 
pect of  a marriage  between  his  elder  Sister  Christophiue  and 
his  friend  Eeinwald  the  Court  Librarian  of  Meiningen,  ex- 
pressed himself  in  a doubting  manner,  and  thereby  delayed 
the  settlement  of  this  affair.  In  regard  to  which  his  Father 
tells  him  : 

“ And  now  I have  something  to  remark  in  respect  of  thy 
Sister.  As  thou,  my  Son,  partly  straight  out,  and  partly 
through  Frau  von  Kalb,  hast  pictured  Iteinwald  in  a way  to 
deter  both  me  and  thy  Sister  in  counselling  and  negotiating 
in  the  way  we  intended,  the  affair  seems  to  have  become  quite 
retrograde  : for  Eeinwald,  these  two  months  past,  has  not 
written  a word  more.  Whether  thou,  my  Son,  didst  well  to 
hinder  a match  not  unsuitable  for  the  age,  and  the  narrow 
pecuniary  circumstances  of  thy  Sister,  God,  who  sees  into  fu- 


SUPPLEMENT. 


235 


turity,  knows.  As  I am  now  sixty-one  years  of  age,  and  can 
leave  little  fortune  when  I die  ; and  as  thou,  my  Son,  how 
happily  soever  thy  hopes  be  fulfilled,  wilt  yet  have  to  struggle, 
years  long,  to  get  out  of  these  present  embarrassments,  and 
arrange  thyself  suitably  ; and  as,  after  that,  thy  own  probable 
marriage  will  always  require  thee  to  have  more  thy  own  ad- 
vantages in  view,  than  to  be  able  to  trouble  thyself  much 
about  those  of  thjr  Sisters  ; — it  would  not,  all  things  consid- 
ered, had  been  ill  if  Ckristophine  had  got  a settlement.  She 
would  quite  certainly,  with  her  apparent  regard  for  Eeinwald, 
have  been  able  to  fit  herself  into  his  ways  and  him  ; all  the 
better  as  she,  God  be  thanked,  is  not  yet  smit  with  ambition, 
and  the  wish  for  great  things,  and  can  suit  herself  to  all  con- 
ditions. ” 

The  Eeinwald  marriage  did  take  place  by  and  by,  in  spite 
of  Schiller  Junior’s  doubts  ; and  had  not  Christophine  been 
the  paragon  of  Wives,  might  have  ended  very  ill  for  all  parties. 

‘ jUiter  these  incidents,  Schiller  bent  his  whole  strength  to 
disengage  himself  from  the  crushing  burden  of  his  debts,  and 
to  attain  the  goal  marked  out  for  him  by  his  Parents’  wishes, 
■ — an  enduring  settlement  and  steady  way  of  life.  Two  things 
essentially  contributed  to  enliven  his  activity,  and  brighten  his 
prospects  into  the  future.  One  was,  the  original  beginning, 
which  falls  in  next  June  1784,  of  his  friendly  intimacy  with 
the  excellent  Korner  ; in  whom  he  was  to  find  not  only  the 
first  founder  of  his  outer  fortune  in  life,  but  also  a kindred 
spirit,  and  cordial  friend  such  as  he  had  never  before  had. 
The  second  was,  that  he  made,  what  shaped  his  future  lot,  ac- 
quaintance with  Duke  Karl  August  of  Weimar  ; who,  after 
hearing  him  read  the  first  act  of  Don  Carlos  at  the  Court  of 
Darmstadt,  had  a long  conversation  with  the  Poet,  and  offi- 
cially, in  consequence  of  the  same,  bestowed  on  him  the  title 
of  Eath.  This  new  relation  to  a noble  German  Prince  gave 
him  a certain  standing-ground  for  the  future  ; and  at  the  same 
time  improved  his  present  condition,  by  completely  securing 
him  in  respect  of  any  risk  from  W urtemberg.  The  now 
Schiller,  as  Court-Counsellor  ( Ho/rath ) to  the  Duke  of  Wei- 
mar ; distinguished  in  this  way  by  a Prince,  who  was  acquainted 


236 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER, 


with  the  Muses,  and  accustomed  only  to  what  was  excellent, 
— stept  forth  in  much  freer  attitude,  secure  of  his  position  and 
himself,  than  the  poor  fugitive  under  ban  of  law  hud  done. 

‘ Out  of  this,  however,  and  the  fact  resulting  from  it,  that 
he  now  assumed  a more  decisive  form  of  speech  in  the  Peri- 
odical “ Thalia  ” founded  by  him,  and  therein  spared  the 
players  as  little  as  the  public,  there  grew  for  him  so  many  and 
such  irritating  brabbles  and  annoyances  that  he  determined 
to  quit  his  connection  with  the  Theatre,  leave  Mannheim  alto- 
gether ; and,  at  Leipzig  with  his  new  title  of  Path,  to  begin  a 
new  honourable  career.  So  soon  as  the  necessary  moneys  and 
advices  from  his  friend  ’ (Korner)  ‘ had  arrived,  he  repaired 
thither,  end  of  March  1785  ; and  remained  there  all  the  sum- 
mer. In  October  of  the  same  year,  he  followed  his  friend 
Korner  to  Dresden  ; and  found  in  the  family  of  this  just- 
minded,  clear-seeing  man  the  purest  and  warmest  sympathy 
for  himself  and  his  fortunes.  The  year  1787  led  him  at  last 
to  Weimar.  But  here  too  he  had  still  long  to  struggle,  u$der 
the  pressure  of  poverty  and  want  of  many  things,  while  the 
world,  in  ever-increasing  admiration,  was  resounding  with  his 
name,  till,  in  1789,  his  longing  fora  civic  existence,  and  there- 
with the  intensest  wTish  of  his  Parents,  was  fulfilled. 

‘Inexpressible  was  the  joy  of  the  now  elderly  Father  to  see 
his  deeply-beloved  Son,  after  so  many  roamings,  mischances 
and  battles,  at  last  settled  as  Professor  in  Jena  ; and  soon 
thereafter,  at  the  side  of  an  excellent  Wife,  happy  at  a hearth 
of  his  own.  The  economic  circumstances  of  the  Son  were  now 
also  shaped  to  the  Father’s  satisfaction.  If  his  College  salary 
was  small,  his  literary  labours,  added  thereto,  yielded  him  a 
sufficient  income ; his  Wife  moreover  had  come  to  him  quite 
fitted  out,  and  her  mother  had  given  all  that  belongs  to  a 
household.  “ Our  economical  adjustment,”  writes  Schiller  to 
his  Father,  some  weeks  after  their  marriage,  “has  fallen  out, 
beyond  all  my  wishes,  well ; and  the  order,  the  dignity  which 
I see  around  me  here  serves  greatly  to  exhilarate  my  mind. 
Could  you  but  for  a moment  get  to  me,  you  would  rejoice  at 
the  happiness  of  your  Sou.” 

‘Well  satisfied  and  joyful  of  heart,  from  this  time,  the 


SUPPLEMENT. 


237 


Father’s  eye  followed  his  Son’s  career  of  greatness  and  renown 
upon  which  the  admired  Poet  every  year  stepped  onwards, 
powerfuler,  and  richer  in  results,  without  ever,  even  tran- 
siently, becoming  strange  to  his  Father’s  house  and  his  kin- 
dred there.  Quite  otherwise,  all  letters  of  the  Son  to  Father 
and  Mother  bear  the  evident  stamp  of  true-hearted,  grateful 
and  pious  filial  love.  He  took,  throughout,  the  heartiest  share 
in  all,  even  the  smallest,  events  that  befell  in  his  Father’s 
house  ; and  in  return  communicated  to  his  loved  ones  all  of 
his  own  history  that  could  soothe  and  gratify  them.  Of  this 
the  following  Letter,  written  by  him,  26th  October  1791,  on 
receipt  of  a case  of  wine  sent  from  home,  furnishes  a convin- 
cing proof : 


“Dearest  Father, — I have  just  returned  with  my  dear  Lotte 
from  Kudolstadt”  (her  native  place),  “where  I was  passing- 
part  of  my  holidays  ; and  find  your  Letter.  Thousand  thanks 
for  the  thrice-welcome  news  you  give  me  there,  of  the  im- 
proving health  of  our  dear  Mother,  and  of  the  general  welfare 
of  you  all.  The  conviction  that  it  goes  well  with  you,  and 
that  none  of  my  dear  loved  ones  is  suffering,  heightens  for 
me  the  happiness  which  I enjoy  here  at  the  side  of  my  dear 
Lotte. 

“You  are  careful,  even  at  this  great  distance,  for  your  chil- 
dren, and  gladden  our  little  household  wdth  gifts.  Heartiest 
thanks  from  us  both  for  the  Wine  you  have  sent ; and  with 
the  earliest  carriage-post  the  Hein walds  shall  have  their  share. 
Day  after  tomorrow  we  will  celebrate  your  Birthday  as  if 
you  were  present,  and  with  our  whole  heart  drink  your 
health. 

“Here  I send  you  a little  production  of  my  pen,  which 
may  perhaps  give  pleasure  to  my  dear  Mother  and  Sisters  ; 
for  it  should  be  at  least  written  for  ladies.  In  the  year  1790, 
Wieland  edited  the  Historical  Calendar , and  in  this  of  1791  and 
in  the  1792  that  will  follow,  I have  undertaken  the  task.  In- 
significant as  a Calendar  seems  to  be,  it  is  that  kind  of  book 
which  the  Publishers  can  circulate  the  most  extensively,  and 
which  accordingly  brings  them  the  best  payment.  To  the 
Authors  also  they  can,  accordingly,  offer  much  more.  For 
this  Essay  on  the  Thirty-Years  War  they  have  given  me  80 
Louis-d’or,  and  I have  in  the  middle  of  my  Lectures  w-ritten 
it  in  four  w'eeks.  Print,  copperplates,  binding,  Author’s  hono- 


238 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER 


rarium  cost  tlie  Publisher  4,500  reichsthaler  (675 L),  and  he 
counts  on  a sale  of  7,000  copies  or  more. 

“ 28 til.  Today,”  so  he  continues,  after  some  remarks  on  a 
good  old  friend  of  his  Father's,  written  after  interruption, — • 
“Today  is  your  Birthday,  dearest  Father,  which  we  both 
celebrate  with  a pious  joy  that  Heaven  has  still  preserved  you 
sound  and  hapjjy  for  us  thus  far.  May  heaven  still  watch 
over  your  dear  life  and  your  health,  and  preserve  your  days 
to  the  latest  age,  that  so  your  grateful  Son  may  be  able  to 
spread,  with  all  the  power  he  has,  joy  and  contentment  over 
the  evening  of  your  life,  and  pay  the  debts  of  filial  duty  to 
you  ! 

“ Farewell,  my  dearest  Father  ; loving  kisses  to  our  dear- 
est Mother,  and  my  dear  Sisters.  We  will  soon  write  again. 

“ The  Wine  has  arrived  in  good  condition  ; once  more  re- 
ceive our  hearty  thanks. — Your  grateful  and  obedient  Son 

“ Fbiedkich.” 

‘In  the  beginning  of  this  year  (1791)  the  Poet  had  been 
seized  with  a violent  and  dangerous  affection  of  the  chest. 
The  immediate  danger  was  now  over  ; but  his  bodily  health 
was,  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  shattered  to  ruin,  and  required, 
for  the  time  coming,  especially  for  the  time  just  come,  all 
manner  of  soft  treatment  and  repose.  The  worst  therefore 
was  to  be  feared  if  his  friends  and  he  could  not  manage  to 
place  him,  for  the  next  few  years,  in  a position  freer  from 
economic  cares  than  now.  Unexpectedly,  in  this  difficulty, 
help  appeared  out  of  Denmark.  Two  warm  admirers  of 
Schiller’s  genius,  the  then  hereditary  Prince  of  Holstein- 
Augustenburg  ’ (Grandfather  of  the  Prince  Christian  now,  1872, 
conspicuous  in  our  English  Court),  ‘ and  Count  von  Schim- 
melmann,  offered  the  Poet  a pension  of  1,000  thalers’  (150Z.) 

‘ for  three  years  ; and  this  with  a fineness  and  delicacy  of 
manner,  which  touched  the  recipient  more  even  than  the 
offer  itself  did,  and  moved  him  to  immediate  assent.  The 
Pension  was  to  remain  a secret ; but  how  could  Schiller  pre- 
vail on  himself  to  be  silent  of  it  to  his  Parents?  With  tears 
of  thankfulness  the  Parents  received  this  glad  message  : in 
their  pious  minds  they  gathered  out  of  this  the  beneficent 
conviction  that  their  Son’s  heavy  sorrows,  and  the  danger  in 


SUPPLEMENT. 


239 


■which  his  life  hung,  had  only  been  decreed  by  Providence  to 
set  in  its  right  light  the  love  and  veneration  which  he  far  and 
near  enjoyed.  Schiller  himself  this  altogether  unexpected 
proof  of  tenderest  sympathy  in  his  fate  visibly  cheered,  and 
strengthened  even  in  health ; at  lowest,  the  strength  of  his 
spirit,  which  now  felt  itself  free  from  outward  embarrassments, 
subdued  under  it  the  weakness  of  his  body. 

‘ In  the  middle  of  the  year  1793,  the  love  of  his  native 
country,  and  the  longing  after  his  kindred,  became  so  lively 
in  him  that  he  determined,  with  his  Wife,  to  visit  Swabia.  He 
writes  to  Korner  : “ The  Swabian,  whom  I thought  I had  alto- 
gether got  done  with,  stirs  himself  strongly  in  me ; but 
indeed  I have  been  eleven  years  parted  from  Swabia  ; and 
Thiiringen  is  not  the  country  in  which  I can  forget  it.”  In 
August  he  set  out,  and  halted  first  in  the  then  Reichstadt  ’ (Im- 
perial Free  Town)  ‘ Heilbronn,  where  he  found  the  friendliest 
reception  ; and  enjoyed  the  first  indescribable  emotion  in 
seeing  again  his  Parents,  Sisters  and  early  friends.  “ My 
dear  ones,”  writes  he  to  Korner,  27th  August,  from  Heilbronn, 
“I  found  well  to  do,  and,  as  thou  canst  suppose,  greatly  re- 
joiced to  meet  me  again.  My  Father,  in  his  seventieth  year, 
is  the  image  of  a healthy  old  age  ; and  any  one  who  did  not 
know  his  years  would  not  count  them  above  sixty.  He  is  in 
continual  activity,  and  this  it  is  which  keeps  him  healthy  and 
youthful.”  In  large  draughts  the  robust  old  man  enjoyed  the 
pleasure,  long  forborne,  of  gazing  into  the  eyes  of  his  Son, 
■who  now  stood  before  him  a completed  man.  He  knew  not 
whether  more  to  admire  than  love  him  ; for,  in  his  whole 
appearance,  and  all  his  speeches  and  doings,  there  stamped 
itself  a powerful  lofty  spirit,  a tender  loving  heart,  and  a pure 
noble  character.  His  youthful  fire  was  softened,  a mild  seri- 
ousness and  a friendly  dignity  did  not  leave  him  even  in  jest ; 
instead  of  his  old  neglect  in  dress,  there  had  come  a dignified 
elegance  ; and  his  lean  figure  and  his  pale  face  completed  the 
interest  of  his  look.  To  this  was  yet  added  the  almost  won- 
derful gift  of  conversation *upon  the  objects  that  were  dear  to 
him,  whenever  he  was  not  borne  down  by  attacks  of  illness. 


240 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


‘ From  Heilbronn,  soon  after  bis  arrival,  Schiller  wrote  to 
Duke  Karl,  in  the  style  of  a grateful  former  Pupil,  whom  con- 
tradictory circumstances  had  pushed  away  from  his  native 
country.  He  got  no  answer  from  the  Duke  ; but  from  Stutt- 
gart friends  he  did  get  sure  tidings- that  the  Duke,  on  receipt 
of  this  Letter,  had  publicly  said,  If  Schiller  came  into  Wiir- 
temberg  Territory,  he,  the  Duke,  would  take  no  notice.  To 
Schiller  Senior,  too,  he  had  at  the  same  time  granted  the 
humble  petition  that  he  might  have  leave  to  visit  his  Son  in 
Heilbronn  now  and  then. 

‘ Under  these  circumstances,  Schiller,  perfectly  secure, 
visited  Ludwigsburg  and  even  Solitude,  without,  as  he  him- 
self expressed  it,  asking  permission  of  the  “ Seliwabenkonig.’ 
And,  in  September,  in  the  near  prospect  of  his  Wife’s  confine- 
ment, he  went  altogether  to  Ludwigsburg,  where  he  was  a 
good  deal  nearer  to  his  kindred  ; and  moreover,  in  the  clever 
Court-Doctor  von  Hoven,  a friend  of  his  youth,  hoped  to  find 
counsel,  help  and  enjoyment.  Soon  after  his  removal,  Schil- 
ler had,  in  the  birth  of  his  eldest  Son,  Karl,  the  sweet  happi- 
ness of  first  paternal  joy  ; and  with  delight  saw  fulfilled  what 
he  had  written  to  a frienct  shortly  before  his  departure  from 
Jena  : “I  shall  taste  the  joys  of  a Son  and  of  a Father,  and  it 
will,  between  these  two  feelings  of  Nature,  go  right  well 
with  me.” 

‘ The  Duke,  ill  of  gout,  and  perhaps  feeling  that  death  was 
nigh,  seemed  to  make  a point  of  strictly  ignoring  Schiller  ; 
and  laid  not  the  least  hindrance  in  his  way.  On  the  contrary, 
he  granted  Schiller  Senior,  on  petition,  the  permission  to 
make  use  of  a certain  Bath  as  long  as  he  liked  ; and  this  Bath 
lay  so  near  Ludwigsburg  that  he  could  not  but  think  the 
meaning  merely  was,  that  the  Father  wished  to  be  nearer  his 
Son.  Absence  was  at  once  granted  by  the  Duke,  useful  and 
necessary  as  the  elder  Schiller  always  was  to  him  at  home. 
For  the  old  man,  now  Major  Schiller,  still  carried  on  his  over- 
seeing of  the  Ducal  Gardens  and  Nurseries  at  Solitude,  and 
his  punctual  diligence,  fidelity,  intelligence  and  other  excel- 
lences in  that  function  had  long  be*en  recognised. 

‘In  a few  weeks  after,  24th  October  1793,  Duke  Kail  died  ; 


SUPPLEMENT. 


241 


aud  was,  by  bis  illustrious  Pupil,  regarded  as  iu  some  sort  a 
paternal  friend.  Scbiller  thought  only  of  the  great  qualities 
of  the  deceased,  and  of  the  good  he  had  done  him  ; not  of  the 
great  faults  which  as  Sovereign,  and  as  man,  he  had  mani- 
fested. Only  to  his  most  familiar  friend  did  he  write  : “ The 
death  of  old  Herod  has  had  no  influence  either  on  me  or  my 
Family, — except  indeed  that  all  men  who  had  immediately  to 
do  with  that  Sovereign  Herr,  as  my  Father  had,  are  glad  now 
to  have  the  prospect  of  a man  before  them.  That  the  new 
Duke  is,  in  every  good,  and  also  in  every  bad  meaning  of  the 
word.”  Withal,  however,  his  Father,  to  whom  naturally  the 
favour  of  the  new  Duke,  Ludwig  Eugen,  was  of  importance, 
could  not  persuade  Schiller  to  welcome  him  to  the  Sovereignty 
with  a poem.  To  Schiller’s  feelings  it  was  unendurable  to 
awaken,  for  the  sake  of  an  external  advantage  from  the  new 
Lord,  any  suspicions  as  if  he  welcomed  the  death  of  the  old.’ 1 
Christophine,  Schiller’s  eldest  Sister,  whom  he  always  loved 
the  most,  was  not  here  in  Swabia  ; — long  hundred  miles  away, 
poor  Christophine,  with  her  sickly  and  gloomy  Husband  at 
Meiningen,  these  ten  years  past ! — but  the  younger  two,  Luise 
and  Nanette,  were  with  him,  the  former  daily  at  his  hand. 
Luise  was  then  twenty-seven,  and  is  described  as  an  excellent 
domestic  creature,  amiable,  affectionate,  even  enthusiastic  ; yet 
who  at  an  early  period,  though  full  of  admiration  about  her 
Brother  and  his  affairs,  had  turned  all  her  faculties  and  ten- 
dencies upon  domestic  practicality,  and  the  satisfaction  of  being 
useful  to  her  loved  ones  in  their  daily  life  and  wants.2  Her 
element  was  altogether  house-management ; the  aim  of  her  en- 
deavour to  attain  the  virtues  by  which  she  saw  her  pious  Mother 
made  happy  herself,  in  making  others  happy  in  the  narrow  in- 
door kingdom.  This  quiet  household  vocation,  with  its  mani- 
fold labours  and  its  simple  joys,  was  Luise’ s world;  beyond 
which  she  needed  nothing  and  demanded  nothing.  From  her 
Father  she  had  inherited  this  feeling  for  the  practical,  and  this 
restless  activity  ; from  the  Mother  her  piety,  compassion  and 
kindliness  ; from  both,  the  love  of  order,  regularity  and  con- 
tentment. Luise,  in  the  weak  state  of  Schiller’s  Wife’s  health, 
1 Saupe,  p.  60.  2 lb.  p.  136  et  seqq. 

16 


242 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


was  right  glad  to  take  charge  of  her  Brother’s  housekeeping  ; 
and,  first  at  Heilbronn  and  then  at  Ludwigsburg,  did  it  to  the 
complete  satisfaction  both  of  Brother  and  Sister-in-law.  Schil- 
ler himself  gives  to  Korner  the  grateful  testimony,  that  she 
“very  well  understands  household  management.” 

‘In  this  daily  relation  with  her  delicate  and  loving  Brother, 
to  whom  Luise  looked  up  with  a sort  of  timid  adoration,  he  be- 
came ever  dear  to  her  ; with  a silent  delight,  she  would  often 
look  into  the  soft  eyes  of  the  great  and  wonderful  man  ; from 
whose  powerful  spirit  she  stood  so  distant,  and  to  whose  rich 
heart  so  near.  All-too  rapidly  for  her  flew  by  the  bright  days  of 
his  abode  in  his  home-land,  and  long  she  looked  after  the  van- 
ished one  with  sad  longing  ; and  Schiller  also  felt  himself  drawn 
closer  to  his  Sister  than  before  ; by  whose  silent  faithful  work- 
ing his  abode  in  Swabia  had  been  made  so  smooth  and  agree- 
able.’ 

Nanette  he  had,  as  will  by  and  by  appear,  seen  at  Jena,  on 
her  Mother’s  visit  there,  the  year  before  ; — with  admiration 
and  surprise  he  then  saw  the  little  creature  whom  he  had  left 
a pretty  child  of  five  years  old,  now  become  a blooming  maiden, 
beautiful  to  eye  and  heart,  and  had  often  thought  of  her  since. 
She  too  was  often  in  his  house,  at  present ; a loved  and  inter- 
esting object  always.  She  had  been  a great  success  in  the  for- 
eign Jena  circle,  last  year  ; and  had  left  bright  memories  there. 
This  is  what  Saupe  says  afterwards,  of  her  appearance  at  Jena, 
and  now  in  Schiller’s  temporary  Swabian  home  : 

‘ She  evinced  the  finest  faculties  of  mind,  and  an  uncommon 
receptivity  and  docility,  and  soon  became  to  all  that  got  ac- 
quainted with  her  a dear  and  precious  object.  To*declaim  pas- 
sages from  her  Brother’s  Poems  was  her  greatest  joy  ; she  did 
her  recitation  well ; and  her  Swabian  accent  and  naivety  of 
manner  gave  her  an  additional  charm  for  her  new  relatives, 
and  even  exercised  a beneficent  influence  on  the  Poet’s  own 
feelings.  With  hearty  pleasure  his  beaming  eyes  rested  often 
on  the  dear’  Swabian  girl,  wrho  understood  how  to  awaken  in 
his  heart  the  sweet  tones  of  childhood  and  home.  “She  is 
good,”  writes  he  of  her  to  his  friend  Korner,  aud  it  seems  as 
if  something  could  be  made  of  her.  She  is  yet  much  the 


SUPPLEMENT. 


243 


child  of  nature,  and  that  is  still  the  best  she  could  be,  never 
having  been  able  to  acquire  any  reasonable  culture.”  With 
Schiller’s  abode  iu  Swabia,  from  August  1793  till  May  1794, 
Nanette  grew  still  closer  to  his  heart,  and  in  his  enlivening 
and  inspiring  neighbourhood  her  spirit  and  character  shot  out 
so  many  rich  blossoms,  that  Schiller  on  quitting  his  Father’s 
house  felt  justified  in  the  fairest  hopes  for  the  future.’  Just 
before  her  visit  to  Jena,  Schiller  Senior  writes  to  his  Son  : 
“ It  is  a great  pity  for  Nanette  that  I cannot  give  her  a better 
education.  She  has  sense  and  talent  and  the  best  of  hearts  ; 
much  too  of  my  dear  Fritz’s  turn  of  mind,  as  he  will  himself 
see,  and  be  able  to  judge.”  1 

‘For  the  rest,  on  what  childlike  confidential  terms  Schiller 
lived  with  his  Parents  at  this  time,  one  may  see  by  the  follow- 
ing Letter,  of  8th  November  1793,  from  Ludwigsburg  : 

“ Eight  sorry  am  I,  dearest  Parents,  that  I shall  not  be  able 
to  celebrate  my  Birthday,  11th  November,  along  with  you. 
But  I see  well  that  good  Papa  cannot  rightly  risk  just  now  to 
leave  Solitude  at  all, — a visit  from  the  Duke  being  expected 
there  every  day.  On  the  whole,  it  does  not  altogether  de- 
pend on  the  day  on  which  one  is  to  be  merry  with  loved  souls  ; 
aud  every  day  on  which  I can  be  where  my  dear  Parents  are 
shall  be  festal  and  welcome  to  me  like  a Birthday. 

“ About  the  precious  little  one  here  Mamma  is  not  to  be 
uneasy.”  (Here  follow  some  more  precise  details  about  the 
health  of  this  little  Gold  Son  ; omitted.)  “ Of  watching  and 
nursing  he  has  no  lack  ; that  you  may  believe  ; and  he  is  in- 
deed, a little  leanness  excepted,  very  lively  and  has  a good 
appetite. 

“I  have  been,  since  I made  an  excursion  to  Stuttgart,  tol- 
erably well ; and  have  employed  this  favourable  time  to  get  a 
little  forward  iu  my  various  employments  wdiick  have  been 
lying  waste  so  long.  For  this  whole  week,  I have  been  very 
diligent,  and  getting-  on  briskly.  This  is  also  the  cause  that 
I have  not  written  to  you.  I am  always  supremely  happy 
when  I am  busy  and  my  labour  speeds.  * 

“ For  your  so  precious  Portrait  I thank  you  a thousand 
times,  dearest  Father  : yet  glad  as  I am  to  possess  this  memo- 
rial of  you,  much  gladder  still  am  I that  Providence  has 

1 Saupe,  pp.  149-50. 


244 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


granted  me  to  have  you  yourself,  and  to  live  in  your  neigh- 
bourhood. But  we  must  profit  better  by  this  good  time,  and 
no  longer  make  such  pauses  before  coming  together  again. 
If  you  once  had  seen  the  Duke  at  Solitude  and  known  how  you 
stand  with  him,  there  would  be,  I think,  no  difficulty  in  a 
short  absence  of  a few  days,  especially  at  this  season  of  the 
year.  I will  send  up  the  carriage  ” (hired  at  Jena  for  the  visit 
thither  and  back)  “ at  the  very  first  opportunity,  and  leave  it 
with  you,  to  be  ready  always  when  you  can  come. 

“ My  and  all  our  hearty  and  childlike  salutations  to  you 
both,  and  to  the  good  Nane  ” (Nanette)  “ my  brotherly  salu- 
tation. 

“Hoping  soon  for  a joyful  meeting, — Your  obedient  Son, 

‘ ‘ Friedrich  Schiller.  ’ ’ 

‘ In  the  new-year  time  1794,  Schiller  spent  several  agree- 
able weeks  in  Stuttgart ; whither  he  had  gone  primarily  on 
account  of  some  family  matter  which  had  required  settling 
there.  At  least  he  informs  his  friend  Ivorner,  on  the  17th 
March,  from  Stuttgart,  “ I hope  to  be  not  quite  useless  to  my 
Father  here,  though,  from  the  connections  in  which  I stand,  I 
can  expect  nothing  for  myself.” 

‘ By  degrees,  however,  the  sickly,  often-ailing  Poet  began 
to  long  again  for  a quiet,  uniform  way  of  life  ; and  this  feel- 
ing, daily  strengthened  by  the  want  of  intellectual  conversa- 
tion, which  had  become  a necessary  for  him,  grew  at  length 
so  strong,  that  he,  with  an  alleviated  heart,  thought  of  depart- 
ure from  his  Birth -land,  and  of  quitting  his  loved  ones  ; glad 
that  Providence  had  granted  him  again  to  possess  his  Parents 
and  Sisters  for  months  long,  and  to  live  in  their  neighbour- 
hood. He  gathered  himself  into  readiness  for  the  journey 
back  ; and  returned,  first  to  his  original  quarters  at  Heilbronn, 
and,  in  May  1794,  with  Wife  and  Child,  to  Jena. 

‘Major  Schiller,  whom  the  jew  to  see  his  Son  and  Grand- 
son seemed  to  have  made  young  again,  lived  with  fresh  pleas- 
ure in  his  idyllic  calling  ; and  in  free  hours  busied  himself 
with  writing  down  his  twenty-years  experiences  in  the  domain 
of  garden-  and  tree-culture, — in  a Work,  the  printing  and 
publication  of  which  were  got  managed  for  him  by  his  re- 


SUPPLEMENT. 


245 


Downed  Son.  In  November  1794  be  was  informed  that  tbe 
young  Publisher  of  the  first  Musen-Almanach  had  accepted  his 
ms.  for  an  honorarium  of  twenty-four  Karolins  ; and  that  the 
same  was  already  gone  to  press.  Along  with  this,  the  good 
old  Major  was  valued  by  his  Prince,  and  by  all  who  knew  him. 
His  subordinates  loved  him  as  a just  impartial  man  ; feared 
him,  too,  however,  in  his  stringent  love  of  order.  Wife  and 
children  showed  him  the  most  reverent  regard  and  tender 
love  ; but  the  Son  was  the  ornament  of  his  old  age.  He  lived 
to  see  the  full  renown  of  the  Poet,  and  his  close  connection 
with  Goethe,  through  which  he  was  to  attain  complete  master- 
ship and  lasting  composure.  With  hands  quivering  for  joy 
the  old  man  grasped  the  mss.  of  his  dear  Son  ; which  from 
Jena,  via  Cotta’s  Stuttgart  Warehouses,  were  before  all  things 
transmitted  to  him.  In  a paper  from  his  hand,  which  is  still 
in  existence,  there  is  found  a touching  expression  of  thanks, 
That  God  had  given  him  such  a joy  in  his  Son.  “And  Thou 
Being  of  all  beings,”  says  he  in  the  same,  “ to  Thee  did  I 
pray,  at  the  birth  of  my  one  Son,  that  Thou  wouldst  supply 
to  him  in  strength  of  intellect  and  faculty  wdiat  I,  from  want 
of  learning,  could  not  furnish  ; and  Thou  hast  heard  me. 
Thanks  to  Thee,  most  merciful  Being,  that  Thou  hast  heard 
the  prayer  of  a mortal ! ” 

‘ Schiller  had  left  his  loved  ones  at  Solitude  whole  and 
well ; and  with  the  firm  hope  that  he  would  see  them  all 
again.  And  the  next-following  years  did  pass  untroubled 
over  the  prosperous  Family.  But  “ ill-luck,”  as  the  proverb 
says,  “ comes  with  a long  stride.”  In  the  Spring  of  1796, 
when  the  French,  under  Jourdan  and  Moreau,  had  overrun 
South  Germany,  there  reached  Schiller,  on  a sudden,  alarming 
tidings  from  Solitude.  In  the  Austrian  chief  Hospital,  which 
had  been  established  in  the  Castle  there,  an  epidemic  fever 
had  bi’oken  out ; and  had  visited  the  Schiller  Family  among 
others.  The  youngest  Daughter  Nanette  had  sunk  under  this 
pestilence,  in  the  flower  of  her  years ; and  whilst  the  second 
Daughter  Luise  lay  like  to  die  of  the  same,  the  Father  also 
was  laid  bedrid  with  gout.  For  fear  of  infection,  nobody  ex- 
cept the  Doctors  would  risk  himself  at  Solitude  ; and  so  the 


246 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


poor  weakly  Mother  stood  forsaken  there,  and  had,  for  months 
long,  to  bear  alone  the  whole  burden  of  the  household  dis- 
tress. Schiller  felt  it  painfully  that  he  was  unable  to  help 
his  loved  ones,  in  so  terrible  a posture  of  affairs  ; and  it  cost 
him  great  effort  to  hide  these  feelings  from  his  friends.  In 
his  pain  and  anxiety,  he  turned  himself  at  last  to  his  eldest 
Sister  Christophine,  Wife  of  Hofrath  Reinwald  in  Meiningen  ; 
and  persuaded  her  to  go  to  Solitude  to  comfort  and  support 
her  people  there.  Had  not  the  true  Sister-heart  at  once  ac- 
ceded to  her  Brother’s  wishes,  he  had  himself  taken  the  firm 
determination  to  go  in  person  to  Swabia,  in  the  middle  of 
May,  and  bring  his  Family  away  from  Solitiide,  and  make  ar- 
rangements for  their  nursing  and  accommodation.  The  news 
of  his  Sister’s  setting  out  relieved  him  of  a great  and  con- 
tinual anxiety.  “ Heaven  bless  thee,”  writes  he  to  her  on  the 
6th  May,  “ for  this  proof  of  thy  filial  love.”  He  earnestly  en- 
treats her  to  prevent  his  dear  Parents  from  delaying,  out  of 
thrift,  any  wholesome  means  of  improvement  to  their  health  ; 
and  declares  himself  ready,  with  joy,  to  bear  all  costs,  those 
of  travelling  included  : she  is  to  draw  on  Cotta  in  Tubingen 
for  whatever  money  she  needs.  Her  Husband  also  he  thanks, 
in  a cordial  Letter,  for  his  consent  to  this  journey  of  his  Wife. 

‘ July  11,  1796,  was  born  to  the  Poet,  who  had  been  in 
much  trouble  about  his  own  household  for  some  time,  his 
second  Son,  Ernst.  Great  fears  had  been  entertained  for  the 
Mother  ; which  proving  groundless,  the  happy  event  lifted  a 
heavy  burden  from  his  heart ; and  he  again  took  courage  and 
hope.  But  soon  after,  on  the  15th  August,  he  writes  again  to 
the  faithful  Horner  about  his  kinsfolk  in  Swabia : “ From  the 
War  wre  have  not  suffered  so  much  ; but  all  the  more  from 
the  condition  of  my  Father,  who,  broken-down  under  an  ob- 
stinate and  painful  disease,  is  slowly  wending  towards  death. 
How  sad  this  fact  is,  thou  mayest  think.” 

‘Within  few  weeks  after,  7th  September  1796,  the  Father 
died;  in  his  seventy-third  year,  after  a sick-bed  of  eight 
months.  Though  his  departure  could  not  be  reckoned  other 
than  a blessing,  yet  the  good  Son  was  deeply  shattered  by  the 


SUPPLEMENT. 


247 


news  of  it.  What  his  filially  faithful  soul  suffered,  in  these 
paipful  days,  is  touchingly  imaged  in  two  Letters,  which  may 
here  make  a fitting  close  to  this  Life-sketch  of  Schiller’s 
Father.  It  was  twelve  days  after  his  Father’s  death  when  he 
wrote  to  his  Brother-in-law,  Beinwald  in  Meiningen : 

“ Thou  hast  here  news,  dear  Brother,  of  the  release  of  our 
good  Father  ; which,  much  as  it  had  to  be  expected,  nay 
wished,  has  deeply  affected  us  all.  The  conclusion  of  so  long 
and  withal  so  active  a life  is,  even  for  bystanders,  a touching 
object  : what  must  it  be  to  those  whom  it  so  nearly  concerns? 
I have  to  tear  myself  away  from  thinking  of  this  painful  loss, 
since  it  is  my  part  to  help  the  dear  remaining  ones.  It  is  a 
great  comfort  to  thy  WTife  that  she  has  been  able  to  continue 
and  fulfil  her  daughterly  duty  till  her  Father’s  last  release. 
She  would  never  have  consoled  herself,  had  he  died  a few  days 
after  her  departure  home. 

“Thou  understandest  how  in  the  first  days  of  this  fatal 
breach  among  us,  while  so  many  painful  things  storm-in  upon 
our  good  Mother,  thy  Christopliine  could  not  have  left,  even 
had  the  Post  been  in  free  course.  But  this  still  remains 
stopped,  and  we  must  wait  the  War-events  on  the  Franconian, 
Swabian  and  Palatinate  borders.  How  much  this  absence  of 
thy  Wife  must  afflict,  I feel  along  with  thee  ; but  who  can 
fight  against  such  a chain  of  inevitable  destinies  ? Alas,  public 
and  universal  disorder  rolls  up  into  itself  our  private  events 
too,  in  the  fatalest  way. 

“ Thy  Wife  longs  from  her  heart  for  home  ; and  she  only 
the  more  deserves  our  regard  that  she,  against  her  inclination 
and  her  interest,  resolved  to  be  led  only  by  the  thought  of  her 
filial  duties.  Now,  however,  she  certainly  will  not  delay  an 
hour  longer  with  her  return,  the  instant  it  can  be  entered 
upon  without  danger  and  impossibility.  Comfort  her  too 
when  thou  writest  to  her  ; it  grieves  her  to  know  thee  for- 
saken, and  to  have  no  power  to  help  thee. 

“ Fare  right  well,  dear  Brother. — Thine,  Schiller.” 

‘ Nearly  at  the  same  time  he  wrote  to  his  Mother  : 

“Grieved  to  the  heart,  I take  up  the  pen  to  lament  with  you 
and  my  dear  Sisters  the  loss  we  have  just  sustained.  In  truth, 
for  a good  while  past  I have  expected  nothing  else  : but  when 
the  inevitable  actually  comes,  it  is  always  a sad  and  overwhelm- 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  RICH  EC  HILLER. 


24S 

ing  stroke.  To  think  that  one  who  was  so  dear  to  us,  whom 
we  hung  upon  with  the  feelings  of  early  childhood,  and  also 
in  later  years  were  bound  to  by  respect  and  love,  that  such  an 
object  is  gone  from  the  world,  that  with  all  our  striving  we 
cannot  bring  it  back,- — to  think  of  this  is  always  something 
frightful.  And  when,  like  you,  my  dearest  best  Mother,  one 
has  shared  with  the  lost  Friend  and  Husband  joy  and  sorrow 
for  so  many  long  years,  the  parting  is  all  the  painfuler.  Even 
when  I look  away  from  what  the  good  Father  that  is  gone  was 
to  myself  and  to  .us  all,  I cannot  without  mournful  emotion 
contemplate  the  close  of  so  steadfast  and  active  a life,  which 
God  continued  to  him  so  long,  in  such  soundness  of  body  and 
mind,  and  which  he  managed  so  honourably  and  well.  Yes 
truly,  it  is  not  a small  thing  to  hold  out  so  faithfully  upon  so 
long  and  toilsome  a course ; and  like  him,  in  his  seventy- 
third  year,  to  part  from  the  world  in  so  childlike  and  pure  a 
mood.  Might  I but,  if  it  cost  me  all  his  sorrows,  pass  away 
from  my  life  as  innocently  as  he  from  his  ! Life  is  so  severe 
a trial  ; and  the  advantages  which  Providence,  in  some  re- 
spects, may  have  granted  me  compared  with  him,  are  joined 
with  so  many  dangers  for  the  heart  and  for  its  true  peace  ! 

“ I will  not  attempt  to  comfort  you  and  my  deal-  Sisters. 
You  all  feel,  like  me,  how  much  we  have  lost ; but  you  feel 
also  that  Death  alone  could  end  these  long  sorrows.  With 
our  dear  Father  it  is  now  well ; and  we  shall  all  follow  him 
ere  long.  Never  shall  the  image  of  him  fade  from  our  hearts  ; 
and  our  grief  for  him  can  only  unite  us  still  closer  together. 

“Five  or  sis  years  ago  it  did  not  seem  likely  that  you,  my 
dear  ones,  should,  after  such  a loss,  find  a Friend  in  your 
Brother, — that  I should  survive  our  dear  Father.  God  has 
ordered  it  otherwise  ; and  He  grants  me  the  joy  to  feel  that  I 
may  still  be  something  to  you.  How  ready  I am  thereto,  I 
need  not  assure  you.  We  all  of  us  know  one  another  in  this 
respect,  and  are  our  dear  Father’s  not  unworthy  children.” 

This  earnest  and  manful  lamentation,  which  contains  also 
a just  recognition  of  the  object  lamented,  may  serve  to  prove, 
think  Saupe  and  others,  what  is  very  evident,  that  Caspar 
Schiller,  with  his  stiff,  military  regulations,  spirit  of  discipline 
and  rugged,  angular  ways,  was,  after  all,  the  proper  Father 
for  a wide-flowing,  sensitive,  enthusiastic,  somewhat  lawless 
Friedrich  Schiller  ; and  did  beneficently  compress  him  into 
something  of  the  shape  necessary  for  his  task  in  this  world. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


249 


II.  THE  MOTHER. 

Of  Schiller’s  Mother,  Elisabetha  Dorothea  Kodweis,  born  at 
Marbach  1733,  the  preliminary  particulars  have  been  given 
above  : That  she  was  the  daughter  of  an  Innkeeper,  Wood- 
measurer  and  Baker  ; prosperous  in  the  place  when  Schiller 
Senior  first  arrived  there.  We  should  have  added,  what  Saupe 
omits,  that  the  young  Surgeon  boarded  in  their  house  ; and 
that  by  the  term  Woodmeasurer  ( Holzmesser , Measurer  of 
Wood),  is  signified  an  Official  Person  appointed  not  only  to 
measure  and  divide  into  portions  the  wood  supplied  as  fuel 
from  the  Ducal  or  Royal  Forests,  but  to  be  responsible  also 
for  payment  of  the  same.  In  which  latter  capacity,  Kodweis, 
as  Father  Schiller  insinuates,  was  rash,  imprudent  and  un- 
lucky, and  at  one  time  had  like  to  have  involved  that  prudent, 
parsimonious  Son-in-law  in  his  disastrous  economics.  We 
have  also  said  what  Elisabetlia’s  comely  looks  were,  and  par- 
ticular features ; pleasing  and  hopeful,  more  and  more,  to  the 
strict  young  Surgeon,  daily  observant  of  her  and  them. 

‘ In  her  circle,’  Saupe  continues,  ‘ she  was  thought  by  her 
early  playmates  a kind  of  enthusiast ; because  she,  with  aver- 
age faculties  of  understanding,  combined  deep  feeling,  true 
piety  and  love  of  Nature,  a talent  for  Music,  nay  even  for 
Poetry.  But  perhaps  it  was  the  very  reverse  qualities  in  her, 
the  fact  namely  that  what  she  wanted  in  culture,  and  it  may 
be  also  in  clearness  and  sharpness  of  understanding,  was  so 
richly  compensated  by  warmth  and  lovingness  of  character, — 
perhaps  it  was  this  which  most  attracted  to  her  the  heart  of 
her  deeply-reasonable  Husband.  And  never  had  he  cause  to 
repent  his  choice.  For  she  was,  and  remained,  as  is  unani- 
mously testified  of  her  by  trustworthy  witnesses,  an  unpretend- 
ing, soft  and  dutiful  Wife  ; and,  as  all  her  Letters  testify,  had 
the  tenderest  mother-heart.  She  read  a good  deal,  even  after 
her  marriage,  little  as  she  had  of  time  for  reading.  Favourite 
Books  with  her  were  those  on  Natural  History  ; but  she  liked 
best  of  all  to  study  the  Biographies  of  famous  men,  or  to 
dwell  in  the  spiritual  poetising  of  an  Utz,  a Gellert  and  Ivlop- 


250 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER, 


stock.  She  also  liked,  and  in  some  measure  had  tlie  power, 
to  express  her  own  feelings  in  verses  ; which,  with  all  their 
simplicity,  show  a sense  for  rhythm  and  some  expertness  in 
diction.  Here  is  one  instance  ; her  salutation  to  the  Husband 
who  was  her  First-love,  on  New-year’s  day  1757,  the  ninth 
year  of  their  as  yet  childless  marriage  : 

0 could  I but  liave  found  forget-me-not  in  tlie  Valley, 

And  roses  beside  it ! Then  bad  I plaited  tbee 
Infragrant  blossoms  tbe  garland  for  this  Kew  Tear, 

Which  is  still  brighter  to  me  than  that  of  our  Marriage  was. 

1 grumble,  in  truth,  that  the  cold  Xorth  now  governs  us, 

And  every  flowret’s  bud  is  freezing  in  the  cold  earth  ! 

Tet  one  thing  does  not  freeze,  I mean  my  loving  heart ; 

Thine  that  is,  and  shares  with  thee  its  joys  and  sorrows. 1 

‘ The  Seven-Years  War  threw  the  young  Wife  into  manifold 
anxiety  and  agitation  ; especially  since  she  had  become  a 
Mother,  and  in  fear  for  the  life  of  her  tenderly-loved  Hus- 
band, had  to  tremble  for  the  Father  of  her  children  too.  To 
this  circumstance  Christophine  ascribes,  certainly  with  some 
ground,  the  world-important  fact  that  her  Brother  had  a much 
weaker  constitution  than  herself.  He  had  in  fact  been  almost 
born  in  a camp.  In  late  Autumn  1759,  the  Infantry  Regiment 
of  Major-General  Romann,  in  which  Caspar  Schiller  was  then 
a Lieutenant,  had,  for  sake  of  the  Autumn  Manoeuvres  of 
the  Wiirtemberg  Soldiery,  taken  Camp  in  its  native  region. 
The  Mother  had  thereupon  set  out  from  Marbach  to  visit  her 
long-absent  Husband  in  the  Camp  ; and  it  was  in  his  tent  that 
she  felt  the  first  symptoms  of  her  travail.  She  rapidly  hast- 
ened back  to  Marbach  ; and  by  good  luck  still  reached  her 

1 ‘ 0 halt  ich  dock  im  Thai  Yergissmeinnicht  gef  unden 
Und  Rosen  nebenbei ! Damn  hat'  ich  Dir  gewunden 
In  Blutliendvft  den  Kranz  zu  diesem  neuen  Jahr, 

Her  schoner  noth  als  dev  am  Hochzeittage  war. 

Ich  zitrne,  traun,  doss  itzt  der  kalte  Word  regieret , 

Undjedes  Blumeihens  Tieim  in  Jccdter  Erde  frieret ! 

Dock  eines  frieret  nicht,  es  ist  mein  liebend  Ilerz, 

Dein  ist  es,  tlieilt  mit  Dir  die  Freudcn  mid  den  Schmerz.' 


SUPPLEMENT. 


251 


Father’s  house  in  the  Market-place  there,  near  by  the  great 
Fountain  ; where  she,  on  the  11th  of  November,  was  delivered 
of  a Boy.  For  almost  four  years  the  little  Friedrich  with 
Christopliine  and  Mother  continued  in  the  house  of  the  -well- 
contented  Grandparents  (who  had  not  yet  fallen  poor),  under 
her  exclusive  care.  With  self-sacrificing  love  and  careful  fidel- 
ity, she  nursed  her  little  Boy  ; whose  tender  body  had  to  suf- 
fer not  only  from  the  common  ailments  of  children,  but  was 
heavily  visited  with  fits  of  cramp.  In  a beautiful  region,  on 
the  bosom  of  a tender  Mother,  and  in  these  first  years  far  from 
the  oversight  of  a rigorous  Father,  the  Child  grew  up,  and  un- 
folded himself  under  cheerful  and  harmonious  impressions. 

‘ On  the  return  of  his  Father  from  the  War,  little  Fritz, 
now  four  years  old,  was  quite  the  image  of  his  Mother  ; long- 
necked, freckled  and  reddish-haired  like  her.  It  was  the  pious 
Mother’s  work,  too,  that  a feeling  of  religion,  early  and  vivid, 
displayed  itself  in  him.  The  easily-receptive  Boy  was  indeed 
keenly  attentive  to  all  that  his  Father,  in  their  Family-circle, 
read  to  them,  and  inexhaustible  in  questions  till  he  had  rightly 
caught  the  meaning  of  it : but  he  listened  with  most  eager- 
ness when  his  Father  read  passages  from  the  Bible,  or  voeally 
uttered  them  in  prayer.  “It  was  a touching  sight,”  says  his 
eldest  Sister,  “the  expression  of  devotion  on  the  dear  little 
Child’s  countenance.  With  its  blue  eyes  directed  towards 
Heaven,  its  high-blond  hair  about  the  clear  brow,  and  its  fast- 
clasped  little  hands.  It  was  like  an  angel's  head  to  look  upon.” 

‘With  Father’s  return,  the  happy  Mother  conscientiously 
shared  with  him  the  difficult  and  important  business  of  bring- 
ing up  their  Son  ; and  both  in  union  worked  highly  benefi- 
cially for  his  spiritual  development.  The  practical  and  rigorous 
Father  directed  his  chief  aim  to  developing  the  Boy’s  intellect 
and  character  ; the  mild,  pious,  poetic-minded  Mother,  on  the 
other  hand,  strove  for  the  ennobling  nurture  of  his  temper 
and  his  imagination.  It  was  almost  exclusively  owing  to  her 
that  his  religious  feeling,  his  tender  sense  of  all  that  was  good 
and  beautiful,  his  love  of  mankind,  tolerance,  and  capability 
of  self-sacrifice,  in  the  circle  of  his  Sisters  and  playmates, 
distinguished  the  Boy. 


252 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


1 On  Sunday  afternoons,  when  she  went  to  walk  with  both 
the  Children,  she  was  wont  to  explain  to  them  the  Church- 
Gospel  of  the  day.  “ Once,”  so  stands  it  in  Christophine’s 
Memorials,  “ when  we  two,  as  children,  had  set  out  walking 
with  dear  Mamma  to  see  our  Grandparents,  she  took  the  way 
from  Ludwigsburg  to  Marbach,  which  leads  straight  over  the 
Hill,”  a walk  of  some  four  miles.  “ It  was  a beautiful  Easter 
Monday,  and  our  Mother  related  to  us  the  history  of  the  two 
Disciples  to  whom,  on  their  journey  to  Emmaus,  Jesus  had 
joined  himself.  Her  speech  and  narrative  grew  ever  more  in- 
spired ; and  when  we  got  upon  the  Hill,  we  were  all  so  much 
affected  that  we  knelt  down  and  prayed.  This  Hill  became  a 
Tabor  to  us.” 

‘ At  other  times  she  entertained  the  children  with  fairy-tales 
and  magic  histories.  Already  while  in  Lorch  she  had  likewise 
led  the  Boy,  so  far  as  his  power  of  comprehension  and  her 
own  knowledge  permitted,  into  the  domains  of  German  Poetry. 
Ivlopstock’s  Messias,  Opitz’s  Poems,  Paul  Gerhard’s  and  Gel- 
lert’s  pious  Songs,  were  made  known  to  him  in  this  tender  age, 
through  his  Mother  ; and  were,  for  that  reason,  doubly  dear. 
At  one  time  also  the  artless  Mother  made  an  attempt  on  him 
with  Hofmannswaldau  ; 1 but  the  sugary  and  windy  tone  of 
him  hurt  the  tender  poet-feeling  of  the  Boy.  With  smiling 
dislike  he  pushed  the  Book  away  ; and  afterwards  was  wont  to 
remark,  when,  at  the  new  year1,  rustic  congratulants  with  their 
foolish  rhymes  would  too  liberally  present  themselves, 
“Mother,  there  is  a new  Hofmannswaldau  at  the  door!” 
Thus  did  the  excellent  Mother  guide  forward  the  soul  of  her 
docile  Boy,  with  Bible-passages  and  Church-symbols,  with 
tales,  histories  and  poems,  into  gradual  form  and  stature. 
Never  forgetting,  withal,  to  awaken  and  nourish  his  sense  for 
the  beauties  of  Nature.  Before  long,  Nature  had  become  his 
dearest  abode  ; and  only  love  of  that  could  sometimes  tempt 
him  to  little  abridgments  of  school-hours.  Often,  in  the 
pretty  region  of  Lorch,  he  wished  the  Sun  goodnight  in  open 

1 A onc.e-celebrated  Silesian  of  the  17tli  century,  distinguished  for  his 
blusterous  exaggerations,  numb-footed  caprioles,  and  tearing  of  a passion 
to  rags  ; — now  extinct. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


253 


song  ; or  with  childish  pathos  summoned  Stuttgart’s  Painters 
to  represent  the  wondrous  formation  and  glorious  colouring 
of  the  sunset  clouds.  If,  in  such  a humour,  a poor  man  met 
him,  his  overflowing  little  heart  would  impel  him  to  the  most 
active  pity  ; and  he  liberally  gave  away  whatever  he  had  by 
him  and  thought  he  could  dispense  with.  The  Father,  who, 
as  above  indicated,  never  could  approve  or  even  endure  such 
unreasonable  giving-up  of  one’s  feelings  to  effeminate  impres- 
sions, was  apt  to  intervene  on  these  occasions,  even  with  man- 
ual punishment, — unless  the  Mother  were  at  hand  to  plead 
the  little  culprit  off. 

‘ But  nothing  did  the  Mother  forward  with  more  eagerness, 
by  every  opportunity,  than  the  kindling  inclination  of  her  Son 
to  become  a preacher  ; which  even  showed  itself  in  his  sports. 
Mother  or  Sister  had  to  put  a little  cowd  on  his  head,  and  pin 
round  him  by  way  of  surplice  a bit  of  black  apron  ; then 
would  he  mount  a chair  and  begin  earnestly  to  preach  ; ran- 
ging together  in  his  own  way,  not  without  some  traces  of  co- 
herency, all  that  he  had  retained  from  teaching  and  church- 
visiting  in  this  kind,  and  interweaving  it  with  verses  of  songs. 
The  Mother,  wdio  listened  attentively  and  with  silent  joy,  put 
a higher  meaning  into  this  childish  play  ; and,  in  thought, 
saw  her  Son  already  stand  in  the  Pulpit,  and  work,  rich  in 
blessings,  in  a spiritual  office.  The  spiritual  profession  was 
at  that  time  greatly  esteemed,  and  gave  promise  of  an  hon- 
ourable existence.  Add  to  this,  that  the  course  of  studies 
settled  for  young  Wurtemberg  Theologians  not  only  offered  im- 
portant pecuniary  furtherances  and  advantages,  but  also  mor- 
ally the  fewest  dangers.  And  thus  the  prudent  and  withal 
pious  Father,  too,  saw  no  reason  to  object  to  this  inclination 
of  the  Son  and  wish  of  the  Mother. 

‘It  had  almost  happened,  however,  that  the  Latin  School  in 
Ludwigsburg  (where  our  Fritz  received  the  immediately  pre- 
paratory teaching  for  his  calling)  had  quite  disgusted  him 
with  his  destination  for  theology.  The  Teacher  of  Religion 
in  the  Institute,  a narrow-minded,  angry-tempered  Pietist,’  as 
we  have  seen,  ‘ used  the  sad  method  of  tormenting  his  scholai-s 
with  continual  rigorous,  altogether  soulless,  drillings  and  train- 


254 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


mgs- in  matters  of  mere  creed;  nay  be  threatened  often  to 
whip  them  thoroughly  if,  in  the  repetition  of  the  catechism, 
a single  word  were  wrong.  And  thus  to  the  fioely-sensitive 
Boy  instruction  was  making  hateful  to  him  what  domestic  in- 
fluences had  made  dear.  Yet  these  latter  did  outweigh  and 
overcome,  in  the  end  ; and  he  remained  faithful  to  his  purpose 
of  following  a spiritual  career. 

‘ When  young  Schiller,  after  the  completion  of  his  course  at 
the  Latin  School,  1777,  was  to  be  confirmed,  his  Mother  and 
her  Husband  came  across  to  Ludwigsburg  the  day  before  that 
solemn  ceremony.  Just  on  their  arrival,  she  saw  her  Son 
wandering  idle  and  unconcerned  about  the  streets  ; and  im- 
pressively represented  to  him  how  greatly  his  indifference  to 
the  highest  and  most  solemn  transaction  of  his  young  life 
troubled  her.  Struck  and  affected  hereby,  the  Boy  withdrew ; 
and,  after  a few  hours,  handed  to  his  Parents  a German 
Poem,  expressive  of  his  feelings  over  the  approaching  renewal 
of  his  baptismal  covenant.  The  Father,  who  either  hadn’t 
known  the  occasion  of  this,  or  had  looked  upon  his  Son’s 
idling  on  the  street  with  less  severe  eyes,  was  highly  aston- 
ished, and  received  him  mockingly  with  the  question,  “ Hast 
thou  lost  thy  senses,  Fritz  ? ” The  Mother,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  visibly  rejoiced  at  that  poetic  outpouring,  and  with 
good  cause.  For,  apart  from  all  other  views  of  the  matter, 
she  recognised  in  it  how  firmly  her  Son’s  inclination  was  fixed 
on  the  study  of  Theology.’ — (This  anecdote,  if  it  were  of  any 
moment  whatever,  appears  to  be  a little  doubtful.) 

1 The  painfuler,  therefore,  was  it  to  the  Mother’s  heart  when 
her  Son,  at  the  inevitable  entrance  into  the  Karl’s  School,  had 
to  give-up  Theology  ; and  renounce  withal,  for  a long  time,  if 
not  forever,  her  farther  guidance  and  influence.  But  she  was 
too  pious  not  to  recognise  by  degrees,  in  this  change  also,  a 
Higher  Hand  ; and  could  trustfully  expect  the  workings  of 
the  same.  Besides,  her  Son  clung  so  tenderly  to  her,  that  at 
least  there  was  no  separation  of  him  from  the  Mother’s  heart 
to  be  dreaded.  The  heart-warm  attachment  of  childish  years 
to  the  creed  taught  him  by  his  Mother  might,  and  did,  vanish ; 
but  not  the  attachment  to  his  Mother  herself,  whose  dear  image 


SUPPLEMENT. 


255 


often  enough  charmed  back  the  pious  sounds  and  forms  of 
early  days,  and  for  a time  scared  away  doubts  and  unbelief. 

‘ Years  came  and  went ; and  Schiller,  at  last,  about  the  end 
of  1780,  stept  out  of  the  Academy,  into  the  actual  world,  which 
he  as  yet  knew  only  by  hearsay.  Delivered  from  that  long 
unnatural  constraint  of  body  and  spirit,  he  gave  free  course 
to  his  fettered  inclinations  ; and  sought,  as  in  Poetry  so  also 
in  Life,  unlimited  freedom  ! The  tumults  of  passion  and 
youthful  buoyancy,  after  so  long  an  imprisonment,  had  their 
sway  ; and  embarrassments  in  money,  their  natural  conse- 
quence, often  brought  him  into  very  sad  moods. 

‘ In  this  season  of  time,  so  dangerous  for  the  moral  purity 
of  the  young  man,  his  Mother  again  was  his  good  Genius  : a 
warning  and  request,  in  her  soft  tone  of  love,  sufficed  to  recall 
youthful  levity  within  the  barriers  again,  and  restore  the  bal- 
ance. She  anxiously  contrived,  too,  that  the  Son,  often  and 
willingly,  visited  his  Father’s  house.  Whenever  Schiller  had 
decided  to  give  himself  a good  day,  lie  wandered  out  with 
some  friend  as  far  as  Solitude.’  (Only  some  four  or  five  miles.) 
“ ‘ What  a baking  and  a roasting  then  went  on  by  that  good 
soul,”  says  one  who  witnessed  it,  “ for  the  dear  Prodigy  of  a 
Son  and  the  comrade  who  had  come  with  him  ; for  whom  the 
good  Mother  never  could  do  enough  ! Never  have  I seen  a 
better  maternal  heart,  a more  excellent,  more  domestic,  more 
womanly  woman.” 

‘ The  admiring  recognition  which  the  Son  had  already  found 
among  his  youthful  friends,  and  in  wider  circles,  was  no  less 
grateful  to  her  heart  than  the  gradual  perception  that  his 
powerful  soul,  welling  forth  from  the  interior  to  the  outward 
man,  diffused  itself  into  his  very  features,  and  by  degrees  even 
advantageously  altered  the  curvatures  and  the  form  of  his 
body.  His  face  about  this  time  got  rid  of  its  freckles  and 
irregularities  of  skin  ; and  strikingly  improved,  moreover,  by 
the  circumstance  that  the  hitherto  rather  drooping  nose  gradu- 
ally acquired  its  later  aquiline  form.  And  withal,  the  youth- 
ful Poet,  with  the  growing  consciousness  of  his  strength  and 
of  his  worth,  assumed  an  imposing  outward  attitude  ; so  that 
a witty  Stuttgart  Lady,  whose  house  Schiller  often  walked 


256 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIED  RICH  SCHILLER. 


past,  saicl  of  him  : “ Regiment’s  Dr.  Schiller  steps  out  as  if  the 
Duke  were  one  of  his  inferior  servants  ! ” 

‘ The  indescribable  impression  which  the  Robbers,  the  gigan- 
tic first-born  of  a Karl’s  Scholar,  made  in  Stuttgart,  com- 
municated itself  to  the  Mother  too  ; innocently  she  gave  her- 
self up  to  the  delight  of  seeing  her  Son’s  name  wondered  at 
and  celebrated  ; and  was,  in  her  Mother-love,  inventive  enough 
to  overcome  all  doubts  and  risks  which  threatened  to  dash  her 
joy.  By  Christophine’s  mediations,  and  from  the  Son  him- 
self as  well,  she  learned  many  a disquieting  circumstance, 
which  for  the  present  had  to  be  carefully  concealed  from  her 
Husband  ; but  nothing  whatever  could  shake  her  belief  in  her 
Son  and  his  talent.  Without  murmur,  with  faithful  trust  in 
God,  she  resigned  herself  even  to  the  bitter  necessity  of  losing 
for  a long  time  her  only  Son  ; having  once  got  to  see,  beyond 
disputing,  that  his  purpose  was  firm  to  withdraw  himself  by 
flight  from  the  Duke’s  despotic  interference  with  his  poetical 
activity  as  well  as  with  his  practical  procedures ; and  that  this 
purpose  of  his  was  rigorously  demanded  by  the  circumstances. 
Yet  a sword  went  through  her  soul  when  Schiller,  for  the  last 
time,  appeared  at  Solitude,  secretly  to  take  leave  of  her.’  Her 
feelings  on  this  tragic  occasion  have  been  described  above  ; 
and  may  well  be  pictured  as  among  the  painfulest,  tenderest 
and  saddest  that  a Mother’s  heart  could  have  to  bear.  Our 
Author  continues : 

‘ In  reality,  it  was  to  the  poor  Mother  a hard  and  lamen- 
table time.  Remembrance  of  the  lately  bright  and  safe-look- 
ing situation,  now  suddenly  rent  asunder  and  committed  to 
the  dubious  unknown  ; anxiety  about  their  own  household  and 
the  fate  of  her  Son  ; the  Father’s  just  anger,  and  perhaps 
some  tacit  self-reproach  that  she  had  favoured  a dangerous 
game  by  keeping  it  concealed  from  her  honest-hearted  Hus- 
band,— lay  like  crushing  burdens  on  her  heart.  And  if  many 
a thing  did  smooth  itself,  and  many  a thing,  which  at  first  was 
to  be  feared,  did  not  take  place,  one  thing  remained  fixed  con- 
tinually,— painful  anxiety  about  her  Son.  To  the  afflicted 
Mother,  in  this  heavy  time,  Frau  von  Wolzogen  devoted  the 
most  sincere  and  beneficent  sympathy  ; a Lady  of  singular 


SUPPLEMENT. 


257 


goodness  of  heart,  who,  during  Schiller’s  eight  hidden  months 
at  Bauerbacli,  frequently  went  out  to  see  his  Family  at  Soli- 
tude. By  her  oral  reports  about  Schiller,  whom  she  herself 
several  times  visited  at  Bauerbach,  his  parents  were  more 
soothed  than  by  his  own  somewhat  excited  Letters.  With 
reference  to  this  magnanimous  service  of  friendship,  Schiller 
wrote  to  her  at  Stuttgart  in  February  1783  : A Letter  to  my 
Parents  is  getting  on  its  way  ; yet,  much  as  I had  to  speak  of 
you,  I have  said  nothing  whatever  ” (from  prudent  motives) 
“ of  your  late  appearance  here,  or  of  the  joyful  moments  of 
our  conversation  together.  You  yourself  still,  therefore,  have 
all  that  to  tell,  and  you  will  presumably  find  a pair  of  atten- 
tive hearers.”  Frau  von  Wolzogen  ventured  also  to  apply  to 
a high  court  lady,  Countess  von  Hohenheim  ’ (Duke’s  finale  in 
the  illicit  way,  whom  he  at  length  wedded),  ‘ personally 
favourable  to  Schiller,  and  to  direct  her  attention,  before  all, 
upon  the  heavy-laden  Pai’ents.  Nor  was  this  wdthout  effect. 
For  the  Countess’s  persuasion  seems  essentially  to  have  contrib- 
uted to  the  result  that  Duke  Earl,  out  of  respect  for  the  de- 
serving Father,  left  the  evasion  of  his  own  Piqfil  unpunished. 

‘ It  must,  therefore,  have  appeared  to  the  still-agitated 
Mother,  who  reverenced  the  Frau  von  Wolzogen  as  her  helpful 
guardian,  a flagrant  piece  of  ingratitude,  when  she  learnt  that 
her  Son  was  allowing  himself  to  be  led  into  a passionate  love 
for  the  blooming  young  Daughter  of  his  Benefactress.  She 
grieved  and  mourned  in  secret  to  see  him  exposed  to  new 
storms ; foreseeing  clearly,  in  this  passion,  a ready  cause  for 
his  removal  from  Bauerbach.  To  such  agitations  her  body 
was  no  longer  equal ; a creeping,  eating  misery  undermined 
her  health.  She  wrote  to  her  Son  at  Mannheim,  with  a soft 
shadow  of  reproof,  that  in  this  year,  since  his  absence,  she 
had  become  ten  years  older  in  health  and  looks.  Not  long 
after,  she  had  actually  to  take  to  bed,  because  of  painful 
cramps,  which,  proceeding  from  the  stomach,  spread  them- 
selves over  breast,  head,  back  and  loins.  The  medicines  which 
the  Son,  upon  express  account  of  symptoms  by  the  Father, 
prescribed  for  her,  had  no  effect.  By  degrees,  indeed,  these 
eramps  abated  or  left-of  ; but  she  tottered  about  in  a state 
17 


258 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


of  sickness,  years  long  : tlie  suffering  mind  would  not  let  the 
body  come  to  strength.  For  though  her  true  heart  was  filled 
with  a pious  love,  which  hopes  all,  believes  and  suffers  all,  yet 
she  was  neither  blind  to  the  faults  of  her  Son,  nor  indifferent 
to  the  thought  of  seeing  her  Family’s  good  repute  and  well- 
being threatened  by  his  non-performances  and  financial  con- 
fusions. 

‘ With  the  repose  and  peace  which  the  news  of  her  Son’s 
appointment  to  Jena,  and  intended  marriage,  had  restored  to 
his  Family,  there  appeared  also  (beginning  of  1790)  an  im- 
provement to  be  taking  place  in  the  Mother’s  health.  Learn- 
ing this  by  a Letter  from  his  Father,  Schiller  wrote  back  with 
lightened  heart : “ How  welcome,  dearest  Father,  was  your 
last  Letter  to  me,  and  how  necessary!  I had,  the  very  day 
before,  got  from  Christophine  the  sad  news  that  my  dearest 
Mother’s  state  had  grown  so  much  worse  ; and  what  a blessed 
turn  now  has  this  weary  sickness  taken  ! If  in  the  future  regi- 
men vitce  (diet  arrangements)  of  ray  dearest  Mother,  there  is 
strict  care  taken,  her  long  and  many  sufferings,  with  the 
source  of  them,  may  be  removed.  Thanks  to  a merciful 
Providence,  which  saves  and  preserves  for  us  the  dear  Mother 
of  our  youth.  My  soul  is  moved  with  tenderness  and  grati- 
tude. I had  to  think  of  her  as  lost  to  us  forever  ; and  she 
has  now  been  given  back.”  In  reference  to  his  approaching 
marriage  with  Lottchen  von  Lengefeld,  he  adds,  “ How  did 
it  lacerate  my  heart  to  think  that  my  dearest  Mother  might 
not  live  to  see  the  happiness  of  her  Son  ! Heaven  bless  you 
with  thousandfold  blessings,  best  Father,  and  grant  to  my 
dear  Mother  a cheerful  and  painless  life  ! ” 

‘ Soon,  however,  his  Mother  again  fell  sick,  and  lay  in  great 
danger.  Not  till  August  following  could  the  Father  announce 
that  she  was  saved,  and  from  day  to  day  growing  stronger; 
The  annexed  history  of  the  disorder  seemed  so  remarkable  to 
Schiller,  that  he  thought  of  preparing  it  for  the  public  ; vmless 
the  Physician;  Court-Doctor  Consbruch,  liked  better  to  send 
it  out  in  print  himself.  “On  this  point,”  says  Schiller,  “I 
will  write  to  him  by  the  first  post  ; and  give  him  my  warmest 
thanks  for  the  inestimable  service  he  has  done  us  all,  by  his 


SUPPLEMENT. 


259 


masterly  cure  of  our  clear  Mamma  ; and  for  his  generous  and 
friendly  behaviour  throughout.”  “ How  heartily,  my  dearest 
Parents,”  writes  he  farther,  “ did  it  rejoice  us  both  ” (this 
Letter  is  of  29th  December  ; on  the  20th  February  of  that 
year  he  had  been  wedded  to  his  Lotte),  “ this  good  news  of 
the  still-continuing  improvement  of  our  dearest  Mother ! 
With  full  soul  we  both  of  us  join  in  the  thanks  which  you 
give  to  gracious  Heaven  for  this  recovery  ; and  our  heart  now 
gives  way  to  the  fairest  hopes  that  Providence,  which  herein 
overtops  our  expectations,  will  surely  yet  prepare  a joyful 
meeting  for  us  all  once  more.” 

‘ Two  years  afterwards  this  hope  passed  into  fulfilment. 
The  Mother  being  now  completely  cured  of  her  last  disorder, 
there  seized  her  so  irresistible  a longing  for  her  Son,  that  even 
her  hesitating  Husband,  anxious  lest  her  very  health  should 
suffer,  at  last  gave  his  consent  to  the  far  and  difficult  journey 
to  Jena.  On  the  3d  Sept.  1792,  Schiller,  in  joyful  humour, 
announces  to  his  friend  in  Dresden,  “ Today  I have  received 
from  home  the  very  welcome  tidings  that  my  good  Mother, 
with  one  of  my  Sisters,  is  to  visit  us  here  this  month.  Her 
arrival  falls  at  a good  time,  when  I hope  to  be  free  and  loose 
from  labour  ; and  then  we  have  ahead  of  us  mere  joyful  under- 
takings.” The  Mother  came  in  company  with  her  youngest 
Daughter,  bright  little  Nane,  or  Nanette  ; and  surprised  him 
two  days  sooner  than,  by  the  Letters  from  Solitude,  he  had 
expected  her.  Unspeakable  joy  and  sweet  sorrow  seized 
Mother  and  Son  to  feel  themselves,  after  ten  years  of  separa- 
tion, once  more  in  each  other’s  arms.  The  long  journey,  bad 
weather  and  roads  had  done  her  no  harm.  “ She  has  altered 
a little,  in  truth,”  writes  he  to  Horner,  “ from  what  she  was 
ten  years  ago  ; but  after  so  many  sicknesses  and  sorrows, 
she  still  has  a healthy  look.  It  rejoices  me  much  that  things 
have  so  come  about,  that  I have  her  with  me  again,  and  can 
be  a joy  to  her.” 

‘ The  Mother  likewise  soon  felt  herself  at  home  and  happy 
in  the  trusted  circle  of  her  children  ; only  too  fast  flew-by 
the  beautiful  and  happy  days,  which  seemed  to  her  richly 
to  make  amends  for  so  many  years  of  sorrows  and  cares. 


260 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Especially  it  did  lier  heart  good  to  see  for  herself  what  a 
beneficent  influence  the  real  and  beautiful  womanhood  of  her 
Daughter-in-law  exercised  upon  her  Son.  Daily  she  leamt  to 
know  the  great  advantages  of  mind  and  heart  in  her ; daily 
she  more  deeply  thanked  God  that  for  her  Son,  who,  on  ac- 
count even  of  his  weak  health,  was  not  an  altogether  conven- 
ient Husband,  there  had  been  so  tender-hearted  and  so 
finely-cultivated  a Wife  given  him  as  life-companion.  The 
conviction  that  the  domestic  happiness  of  her  Son  was  secure 
contributed  essentially  also  to  alleviate  the  pain  of  departure. 

‘Still  happier  days  fell  to  her  when  Schiller,  stirred  up  by 
her  visit,  came  the  year  after,  with  his  Wife,  to  Swabia  ; and 
lived  there  from  August  1793  till  May  1794.  It  was  a singu- 
lar and  as  if  providential  circumstance,  which  did  not  escape 
the  pious  Mother,  that  Schiller  in  the  same  month  in  which 
he  had,  eleven  years  ago,  hurried  and  in  danger,  fled  out  of 
Stuttgart  to  Ludwigsburg,  should  now  in  peace  and  without 
obstruction  come,  from  Heilbronn  by  the  same  Ludwigsburg, 
to  the  near  neighbourhood  of  his  Parents.  With  bitter  tears 
of  sorrow,  her  eye  had  then  followed  the  fugitive,  in  his  dark 
trouble  and  want  of  everything  ; with  sweet  tears  of  joy,  she 
now  received  her  fame-crowned  Son,' whom  God,  through 
sufferings  and  mistakes  and  wanderings,  had  led  to  happiness 
and  wisdom.  The  birth  of  the  Grandson  gave  to  her  life  a 
new  charm,  as  if  of  youth  returned.  She  felt  herself  highly 
favoured  that  God  had  spared  her  life  to  see  her  deal-  Son’s 
first-born  with  her  own  eyes.  It  was  a touching  spectacle  to 
see  the  Grandmother  as  she  sat  by  the  cradle  of  the  little 
“ Gold  Son,”  and  listened  to  every  breath-drawing  of  the 
child  ; or  when,  with  swelling  heart,  she  watched  the  ap- 
proaching steps  of  her  Son,  and  observed  his  true  paternal 
pleasure  over  his  first-born. 

‘ Well  did  the  excellent  Grandmother  deserve  such  refresh- 
ment of  heart  ; for  all-too  soon  there  came  again  upon  her 
troublous  and  dark  days.  Schiller  had  found  her  stronger 
and  cheerfuler  than  on  her  prior  visit  to  Jena  ; and  had  quit- 
ted his  Homedand  with  the  soothing  hope  that  his  good 
Mother  would  reach  a long  and  happy  age.  Nor  could  he 


SUPPLEMENT. 


261 


Lave  the  least  presentiment  of  the  events  which,  three  years 
later,  burst-in,  desolating  and  destroying,  upon  his  family, 
and  brought  the  health  and  life  of  his  dear  Mother  again  into 
peril.  It  is  above  stated,  in  our  sketch  of  the  Husband,  in 
what  extraordinary  form  the  universal  public  misery,  under 
which,  in  1796,  all  South  Germany  was  groaning,  struck  the 
Schiller  Family  at  Solitude.  Already  on  the  21st  March  of 
this  year,  Schiller  had  written  to  his  Father,  “How  grieved 
I am  for  our  good  dear  Mother,  on  whom  all  manner  of  sor- 
rows have  stormed  down  in  this  manner  ! But  what  a mercy 
of  God  it  is,  too,  that  she  still  has  strength  left  not  to  sink 
under  these  circumstances,  but  to  be  able  still  to  afford  you 
so  much  help  ! Who  would  have  thought,  six  or  seven  years 
ago,  that  she,  who  was  so  infirm  and  exhausted,  would  now 
be  serving  you  all  as  support  and  nurse  ? In  such  traits  I 
recognise  a good  Providence  which  watches  over  us  ; and  my 
heart  is  touched  by  it  to  the  core.” 

‘ Meanwhile  the  poor  Mother’s  situation  grew  ever  fright- 
fuler  from  day  to  day ; and  it  needed  her  extraordinary 
strength  of  religious  faith  to  keep  her  from  altogether  sink- 
ing under  the  pains,  sorrows  and  toils,  which  she  had  for  so 
many  weeks  to  bear  all  alone,  with  the  help  only  of  a hired 
maid.  The  news  of  such  misery  threw  Schiller  into  the  deep- 
est grief.  He  saw  only  one  way  of  sending  comfort  and  help 
to  his  poor  Mother,  and  immediately  adopted  it ; writing  to 
his  eldest  Sister  in  Meiningen,  as  follows  : 

“Thou  too  wilt  have  heard,  dearest  Sister,  that  Luise  has 
fallen  seriously  ill ; and  that  our  poor  dear  Mother  is  thereby 
robbed  of  all  consolation.  If  Luise’s  case  were  to  grow  worse, 
or  our  Father’s  even,  our  poor  Mother  would  be  left  entirely 
forsaken.  Such  misery  would  be  unspeakable.  Canst  thou 
make  it  possible,  tloink’st  thou,  that  thy.  strength  could  ac- 
complish such  a thing  ? If  so,  at  once  make  the  journey 
thither.  What  it  costs  I will  pay  with  joy.  Reinwald  might 
accompany  thee  ; or,  if  he  did  not  like  that,  come  over  to  me 
here,  where  I would  brother-like  take  care  of  him. 

“ Consider,  my  dear  Sister,  that  Parents,  in  such  extremity 
of  need,  have  the  justest  claim  upon  their  children  for  help. 
O God,  why  am  not  I myself  in  such  health  as  in  my  journey 


202 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


thither  three  years  ago  ! Nothing  should  have  hindered  me 
from  hastening  to  them  ; but  that  I have  scarcely  gone  over 
the  threshold  for  a year  past  makes  me  so  weak  that  I either 
could  not  stand  the  journey,  or  should  fall  down  into  sick- 
ness myself  in  that  afflicted  house.  Alas,  I can  do  nothing 
for  them  but  help  with  money  ; and,  God  knows,  I do  that 
with  joy.  Consider  that  our  dear  Mother,  who  has  held  up 
hitherto  with  an  admirable  courage,  must  at  last,  break  down 
under  so  many  sorrows.  I know  thy  childlike  loving  heart,  I 
know  the  perfect  fairness  and  equitable  probity  of  my  Broth- 
er-in-law. Both  these  facts  will  teach  you  better  than  I 
under  the  circumstances.  Salute  him  cordially. — Thy  faithful 
Brother,  Schllleb.” 

Christophine  failed  not  to  go,  as  we  saw  above.  £ From 
the  time  of  her  arrival  there,  no  week  passed  without  Schiller’s 
writing  home  ; and  his  Letters  much  contributed  to  strengthen 
and  support  the  heavy daden  Mother.  The  assurance  of  being 
tenderly  loved  by  such  a Son  was  infinitely  grateful  to  her  ; 
she  considered  him  as  a tried  faithful  friend,  to  whom  one, 
without  reluctance,  yields  his  part  in  one’s  own  sorrows. 
Schiller  thus  expresses  himself  on  this  matter  in  a Letter  to 
Christophine  of  9tli  May.  “ The  last  Letter  of  my  dear  good 
Mother  has  deeply  affected  me.  Ah,  how  much  has  this  good 
Mother  already  undergone  ; and  with  what  patience  and  cour- 
age has  she  borne  it ! How  touching  is  it  that  she  opened 
her  heart  to  me  ; and  what  woe  was  mine  that  I cannot  im- 
mediately comfort  and  soothe  her ! Hadst  thou  not  gone,  I 
could  not  have  stayed  here.  The  situation  of  our  deal-  ones 
was  horrible  ; so  solitary,  without  help  from  loving  Mends, 
and  as  if  forsaken  by  their  two  children,  living  far  away  ! I 
dare  not  think  of  it.  What  did  not  our  good  Mother  do  for 
her  Parents  ; and  how  greatly  has  she  deserved  the  like  from 
us  ! Thou  wilt  comfort  her,  dear  Sister  ; and  me  thou  wilt 
find  heartily  ready  for  all  that  thou  canst  propose  to  me. 
Salute  our  dear  Parents  in  the  tenderest  way,  and  tell  them 
that  their  Son  feels  then-  sorrows.” 

‘ The  excellent  Christophine  did  her  utmost  in  these  days 
of  sorrow.  She  comforted  her  Mother,  and  faithfully  nursed 
her  Father  to  his  last  breath  ; nay  she  saved  him  and  the 


SUPPLEMENT. 


.263 


house,  with  great  presence  of  mind,  on  a sudden  inburst  of 
French  soldiers.  Nor  did  she  return  to  Meiningen  till  all 
tumult  of  affairs  was  past,  and  the  Mother  was  again  a little 
composed.  And  composure  the  Mother  truly  needed ; for  in 
a short  space  she  had  seen  a hopeful  Daughter  and  a faithful 
Husband  laid  in  their  graves  ; and  by  the  death  of  her  Hus- 
band a union  fevered  which,  originating  in  mutual  affection, 
had  for  forty-seven  years  been  blessed  with  the  same  mutual 
feeling.  To  all  which  in  her  position,  was  now  added  the 
doubly-pressing  care  about  her  future  days.  Here,  however, 
the  Son  so  dear  to  her  interposed  with  loving  readiness,  and 
the  tender  manner  natural  to  him  : 

“You,  dear  Mother,”  he  writes,  “must  now  choose  wholly 
for  yourself-  what  your  way  of  life  is  to  be  ; and  let  there  be, 
I charge  you,  no  care  about  me  or  others  in  your  choice. 
Ask  yourself  where  you  would  like  best  to  live, — here  with 
me,  or  with  Clrristophine,  or  in  our  native  country  with  Luise. 
Whithersoever  your  choice  falls,  there  will  we  provide*  the 
means.  For  the  present,  of  course,  in  the  circumstances 
given,  you  would  remain  at  Wiirtemberg  a little  while ; and 
in  that  time  all  would  be  arranged.  I think  you  might  pass 
the  winter  months  most  easily  at  Leonberg  ” (pleasant  Village 
nearest  to  Solitude) ; “ and  then  with  the  Spring  you  would 
come  with  Luise  to  Meiningen  ; where,  however,  I would  ex- 
pressly advise  that  you  had  a household  of  your  own.  But  of 
all  this,  more  next  time.  I would  insist  upon  your  coming 
here  to  me,  if  I did  not  fear  things  'would  be  too  foreign  and 
too  unquiet  for  you.  But  were  you  once  in  Meiningen, 
we  will  find  means  enough  to  see  each  other,  and  to  bring 
your  dear  Grandchildren  to  you.  It  were  a great  comfort, 
dearest  Mother,  at  least  to  know  you,  for  the  first  three  or 
four  weeks  after  Christophine’s  departure,  among  people  of 
your  acquaintance ; as  the  sole  company  of  our  Luise  would 
too  much  remind  you  of  times  that  are  gone.  But  should 
there  be  no  Pension  granted  by  the  Duke,  and  the  Sale  of 
Furniture,  &c.  did  not  detain  you  too  long,  you  might  per- 
haps travel  with  both  the  Sisters  to  Meiningen  ; and  there 
compose  yourself  in  the  new  world  so  much  the  sooner.  All 


2(14 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  - SCHILLER. 


that  you  need  for  a convenient  life  must  and  shall  be  yours, 
dear  Mother.  It  shall  be  henceforth  my  care  that  no  anxiety 
on  that  head  be  left-  you.  After  so  many  sorrows,  the  evening 
of  your  life  must  be  rendered  cheerful,  or  at  least  peaceful ; 
and  I hope  you  will  still,  in  the  bosom  of  your  Children  and 
Grandchildren,  enjoy  many  a good  day.”  In  conclusion,  he 
bids  her  send  him  everything  of  Letters  and^MSS.  which  his 
clear  Father  left ; hereby  to  fulfil  his  last  wish  ; which  also 
shall  have  its  uses  to  his  dear  Mother. 

‘ The  Widow  had  a Pension  granted  by  the  Duke,  of  200 
gulden  ’ (near  20/.) ; ‘ and  therein  a comfortable  proof  that 
official  people  recognised  the  worth  of  her  late  Husband, 
and  held  him  in  honour.  She  remained  in  her  native  coun- 
try ; and  lived  the  next  three  years,  according  to  her  Son’s 
counsel,  with  Luise  in  the  little  village  of  Leonberg,  near  to 
Solitude,  where  an  arrangement  had  been  made  for  her.  Here 
a certain  Herr  Eoos,  a native  of  Wiirtembefg,  had  made  some 
acquaintance  with  her,  in  the  winter  1797-8  ; to  whom  we 
owe  the  following  sketch  of  portraiture.  “ She  was  a still 
agreeable  old  person  of  sixty-five  or  six,  whose  lean  wrinkly 
face  still  bespoke  cheerfulness  and  kindliness.  Her  thin  hair 
was  all  gray  ; she  was  of  short  ” (middle)  “ stature,  and  her 
attitude  slightly  stooping  ; she  had  a pleasant  tone  of  voice  ; 
and  her  speech  flowed  light  and  cheerful  Her  bearing  gen- 
erally showed  native  grace,  and  practical  acquaintance  with 
social  life.” 

‘ Towards  the  end  of  1799,  there  opened  to  the  Mother  a 
new  friendly  outlook  in  the  marriage  of  her  Luise  to  the 
young  Parson,  M.  Frankb,  in  Clever-Sulzbach,  a little  town 
near  Heilbronn.  The  rather  as  the  worthy  Son-in-law  would 
on  no  account  have  the  Daughter  separated  from  the  Mother.’ 
Error  on  Saupe’s  part.  The  Mother  Schiller  continued  to  oc- 
cupy her  own  house  at  Leonberg  till  near  the  end  of  her  life  ; 
she  naturally  made  frequent  little  visits  to  Clever-Sulzbach  ; 
and  her  death  took  place  there. 1 ‘ Shortly  before  the  marriage, 

Schiller  wrote,  heartily  wishing  Mother  and  Sister  happiness 
in  this  event.  It  would  be  no  small  satisfaction  to  his  Sister, 
1 Beziehungen,  197  n. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


265 


lie  said,  that  slie  could  lodge  and  wait  upon  hei’  good  dear 
Mother  in  a well-appointed  house  of  her  own  ; to  his  Mother 
also  it  must  be  a great  comfort  to  see  her  children  all  settled, 
and  to  live  up  again  in  a new  generation. 

‘Almost  contemporary  with  the  removal  of  the  Sou  from 
Jena  to  Weimar,  was  the  Mother’s  with  her  Daughter  to 
Clever-Sulzbach.  The  peaceful  silence  which  now  environed 
them  in  their  rural  abode  had  the  most  salutary  influence  both 
on  her  temper  of  mind  and  on  her  health ; all  the  more  as 
Daughter  and  Son-in-law  vied  with  each  other  in  respectful 
attention  to  her.  The  considerable  distance  from  her  Son, 
when  at  times  it  fell  heavy  on  her,  she  forgot  in  reading  his 
Letters  ; which  were  ever  the  unaltered  expression  of  the 
purest  and  truest  child-love.  She  forgot  it  too,  as  often,  over 
the  immortal  works  out  of  which  his  powerful  spirit  spoke  to 
her.  She  lived  to  hear  the  name  of  Friedrich  Schiller  cele- 
brated over  all  Germany  with  reverent  enthusiasm  ; and  en- 
nobled by  the  German  People  sooner  and  more  gloriously 
than  an  Imperial  Patent  could  do  it.  Truly  a Mother  that 
has  had  such  joys  in  her  Son  is  a happy  one  ; and  _can  and 
may  say,  “ Lord,  now  let  me  depart  in  peace ; I have  lived 
enough  ! ” 

‘In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1802,  Schiller's  Mother  again 
fell  ill.  Her  Daughter  Luise  hastened  at  once  to  Stuttgart, 
where  she  then  chanced  to  be,  and  carried  her  home  to 
Clever-Sulzbach,  to  be  under  her  own  nursing.  So  soon  as 
Schiller  heard  of  this,  he  wrote,  in  well-meant  consideration 
of  his  Sister’s  frugal  economies,  to  Dr.  Hoven,  a friend  of  his 
youth  at  Ludwigsburg ; and  empowered  him  to  take  his 
Mother  over  thither,  under  his  own  medical  care  : he,  Schil- 
ler, would  with  pleasure  pay  all  that  was  necessary  for  lodg- 
ing and  attendance.  But  the  Mother  stayed  with  her  Daugh- 
ter ; wrote,  however,  in  her  last  Letter  to  Schiller  : “ Thy  un- 
wearied love  and  care  for  me  God  reward  with  thousandfold 
love  and  blessings  ! Ah  me ! another  such  Son  there  is  not 
in  the  world  ! ” Schiller  in  his  continual  anxiety  about  the 
dear  Patient,  had  his  chief  solace  in  knowing  her  to  be  in 
such  tender  hands  ; and  he  wrote  at  once,  withal,  to  his  Sis- 


200 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


ter  : “ Thou  wilt  permit  me  also  that  on  my  side  I try  to  do 
something  to  lighten  these  burdens  for  thee.  I therefore 
make  this  agreement  with  my  Bookseller  Cotta  that  he  shall 
furnish  my  dear  Mother  with  the  necessary  money  to  make 
good,  in  a convenient  way,  the  extra  outlays  which  her  illness 
requires.” 

‘ Schiller’s  hope,  supported  by  earlier  experiences,  that  kind 
Nature  would  again  .help  his  Mother,  did  not  find  fulfilment. 
On  the  contrary,  her  case  grew  worse  ; she  suffered  for  months 
the  most  violent  pains ; and  was  visibly  travelling  towards 
Death.  Two  days  before  her  departure,  she  had  the  Medal- 
lion of  her  Son  handed  down  to  her  from  the  wall ; and 
pressed  it  to  her  heart ; and,  with  tears,  thanked  God,  who 
had  given  her  such  good  children.  On  the  29th  April 
1802,  she  passed  away,  in  the  G9th  year  of  her  age.  Schil- 
ler, from  the  tenor  of  the  last  news  received,  had  given  up  all 
hope  ; and  wrote,  in  presentiment  of  the  bitter  loss,  to  his 
Sister  Frankh  at  Clever-Sulzbach  : 

“ Thy  last  letter,  dearest  Sister,  leaves  me  without  hope  of 
our  dear  Mother.  For  a fortnight  past  I have  looked  with 
terror  for  the  tidings  of  her  departure  ; and  the  fact  that  thou 
hast  not  written  in  that  time,  is  a ground  of  fear,  not  of  com- 
fort. Alas  ! under  her  late  circumstances,  life  was  no  good 
to  her  more  ; a speedy  and  soft  departure  was  the  one  thing 
that  could  be  wished  and  prayed  for.  But  write  me,  dear 
Sister,  when  thou  hast  recovered  thyself  a little  from  these 
mournful  days.  Write  me  minutely  of  her  condition  and  her 
utterances  in  the  last  hours  of  her  life.  It  comforts  and  com- 
poses me  to  busy  myself  with  her,  and  to  keep  the  dear  image 
of  my  Mother  living  before  me. 

“ And  so  they  are  both  gone  from  us,  our  dear  Parents  ; 
and  we  Three  alone  remain.  Let  us  be  all  the  nearer  to  each 
other,  dear  Sister ; and  believe  always  that  thy  Brother, 
though  so  far  away  from  thee  and  thy  Sister,  carries  you  both 
warmly  in  his  heart ; and  in  all  the  accidents  of  this  life  will 
eagerly  meet  you  with  his  brotherly  love. 

“ But  I can  Avrite  no  more  today.  Write  me  a few  words 
soon.  I embrace  thee  and  thy  dear  Husband  with  my  whole 
heart ; and  thank  him  again  for  all  the  love  he  has  shown  our 
departed  Mother. — Your  true  Brother,  Schiuler.” 


SUPPLEMENT. 


267 


c Soon  after  this  Letter,  lie  received  from  Frankli,  his  Broth- 
er-in-law, the  confirmation  of  his  sad  anticipations.  From  his 
answer  to  Frankh  we  extract  the  following  passage:  “May 
Heaven  repay  with  rich  interest  the  dear  Departed  One  all 
that  she  has  suffered  in  life,  and  done  for  her  children  ! Of 
a truth  she  deserved  to  have  loving  children  ; for  she  was  a 
good  Daughter  to  her  suffering  necessitous  Parents  ; and  the 
childlike  solicitude  she  always  had  for  them  well  deserved 
the  like  from  us.  You,  my  dear  Brother-in-law,  have  shared 
the  assiduous  care  of  my  Sister  for  Her  that  is  gone  ; and 
acquired  thereby  the  justest  claim  upon  my  brotherly  love. 
Alas,  you  had  already  given  j'our  spiritual  Support  and  filial 
service  to  my  late  Father,  and  taken  on  yourself  the  duties  of 
his  absent  Son.  How  cordially  I thank  you  ! Never  shall  I 
think  of  my  departed  Mother  without,  at  the  same  time,  bless- 
ing the  memory  of  him  who  alleviated  so  kindly  the  last  days 
of  her  life.  ” He  then  signifies  the  wish  to  have,  from  the  ef- 
fects of  his  dear  Mother,  something  that,  without  other  worth, 
will  remain  a continual  memorial  of  her.  And  was  in  effect 
heartily  obliged  to  his  Brother,  who  sent  him  a ring  which 
had  been  hers.  “ It  is  the  most  precious  thing  that  he  could 
have  chosen  for  me,’1  writes  he  to  Luise  ; “ and  I will  keep 
it  as  a sacred  inheritance.”  Painfully  had  it  touched  him, 
withal,  that  the  day  of  his  entering  his  new  house  at  Weimar 
had  been  the  death-day  of  his  Mother.  He  noticed  this  sin- 
gular coincidence,  as  if  in  mournful  presentiment  of  his  owu 
early  decease,  as  a singular  concatenatiou  of  events  by  the 
hand  of  Destiny. 

‘ A Tree  and  a plain  stone  Cross,  with  the  greatly  compre- 
hensive short  inscription,  “Here  rests  Schiller’s  Mother,”  now 
mark  her  grave  in  Clever-Sulzbach  Churchyard.’ 


III.  THE  SISTERS. 

Saupe  has  a separate  Chapter  on  each  of  the  three  Sisters  of 
Schiller  ; but  most  of  what  concerns  them,  especially  in  rela- 
tion to  their  Brother,  has  been  introduced  incidentally  above. 


2G3 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Besides  which,  Saupe’s  flowing  pages  are  too  long  for  onr 
space  ; so  that  instead  of  translating,  henceforth,  we  shall 
have  mainly  to  compile  from  Saupe  and  others,  and  faithfully 
abridge. 

Christophine  ( born  4 Sept.  1757  ; married  1 June  1786 
died  31  August  1847). 1 

Till  Schiller’s  flight,  in  which  wThat  endless  interest  and  in- 
dustries Christophine  had  we  have  already  seen,  the  young 
girls, — Christophine  25,  Luise  16,  Nanette  a rosy  little  creat- 
ure of  5, — had  known  no  misfortune  ; nor,  excep't  Chris- 
tophine’s  feelings  on  the  death  of  the  two  little  Sisters,  years 
ago,  no  heavy  sorrow.  At  Solitude,  but  for  the  general  cloud 
of  anxiety  and  grief  about  their  loved  and  gifted  Brother  and 
his  exile,  their  lives  were  of  the  peaceablest  description : dili- 
gence in  household  business,  sewing,  spinning,  contented 
punctuality  in  all  things ; in  leisure  hours  eager  reading  (or 
at  times,  on  Christophine’s  part,  drawing  and  painting,  in 
which  she  attained  considerable  excellence),  and,  as  choicest 
recreation,  walks  amid  the  flourishing  Nurseries,  Tree-avenues, 
and  flue  solid  industries  and  forest  achievements  of  Papa. 
Mention  is  made  of  a Cavalry  Begiment  stationed  at  Solitude  ; 
the  young  officers  of  which,  without  society  in  that  dull  place, 
and  with  no  employment  except  parade,  were  considerably 
awake  to  the  comely  Jungfers  Schiller  and  them  promenadings 

'Here,  from  Schiller  Senior  himself  {Autobiography,  called  “ Curri- 
culum Vital,  ” in  Bezieliungen , pp.  15-18),  is  a List  of  his  six  Children; — 
the  two  that  died  so  young  we  have  marked  in  italics: 

1.  • Elisabeth  Christophine  Friedericke,  horn  4 September 
1757,  at  Marbach. 

2.  ‘ Johann  Christoph  Friedrich,  born  10  November  1759,  at 
Marbach. 

8.  ‘ Luise  Dorothea  Katharina,  born  24  January  1766,  at  Lorcli. 

4.  ‘ Maria  Charlotte,  horn  20  November  1768,  at  Ludicigsburg : died 
29  March  1774  ; ’ age  5 gone. 

5.  ‘ Beata  Friedericke,  horn  4 May  1773,  at  Ludwigsburg : died  22  De- 
cember, same  year. 

6.  ‘ Caroline  Christiane,  born  8 September  1777,  at  Solitiide  ; ’ — 
(this  is  she  they  call,  in  fond  diminutive,  Name  or  Nanette.) 


SUPPLEMENT. 


269 


in  those  pleasant  woods  : one  Lieutenant  of  them  (afterwards 
a Colonel,  ‘ Obrist  von  Miller  of  Stuttgart’)  is  said  to'  have 
manifested  honourable  aspirations  and  intentions  towards 
Christophine* — which,  however,  and  all  connection  with  whom 
or  his  comrades,  the  rigorously  prudent  Father  strictly  for- 
bade ; his  piously  obedient  Daughters,  Christophine  it  is 
rather  thought,  with  some  regret,  immediately  conforming. 
A Portrait  of  this  Yon  Miller,  painted  by  Christophine,  still 
exists,  it  would  appear,  among  the  papers  of  the  Schillers.1 

The  great  transaction  of  her  life,  her  marriage  with  Reiu- 
wald,  Court  Librarian  of  Meiuingen,  had  its  origin  in  1783  ; 
the  fruit  of  that  forced  retreat  of  Schiller’s  to  Bauerbach,  and 
of  the  eight  months  he  spent  there,  under  covert,  anonymously 
and  in  secret,  as  ‘Dr.  Ritter,’  with  Reinwald  for  his  one  friend 
and  adviser.  Reinwald,  who  commanded  the  resources  of  an 
excellent  Library,  and  of  a sound  understanding,  long"  seri- 
ously and  painfully  cultivated,  was  of  essential  use  to  Schiller  g 
and  is  reckoned  to  be  the  first  real  guide  or  useful  counsellor 
he  ever  had  in  regard  to  Literature.  One  of  Christophine’s 
Letters  to  her  Brother,  written  at  her  Father’s  order,  fell  by 
accident  on  Reinwald’s  floor,  and  wns  read  by  him, — awaken- 
ing in  his  over-clouded,  heavy-laden  mind  a gleam  of  hope 
and  aspiration.  “ This  wise,  prudent,  loving-hearted  and 
judicious  young  woman,  of  such  clear  and  salutary  principles 
of  wisdom  as  to  economics  too,  what  a blessing  she  might  be 
to  me  as  Wife  in  this  dark,  lonely  home  of  mine  ! ” Upon 
which  hint  he  spake  ; and  Schiller,  as  we  saw  above,  who 
loved  him  well,  but  knew  him  to  be  within  a year  or  two  of 
fifty,  always  ailing  in  health,  taciturn,  surly,  melancholy,  and 
miserably  poor,  was  rebuked  by  Papa  for  thinking  it  question- 
able. We  said,  it  came  about  all  the  same.  Schiller  had  not 
yet  left  Mannheim  for  the  second  and  last  time,  when,  in 
1784,  Christophine  paid  him  a visit,  escorted  thither  by  Rein- 
wald ; who  had  begged  to  have  that  honour  allowed  him  ; 
having  been  at  Solitude,  and,  either  there  or  on  his  road  to 
Mannheim,  concluded  his  affair.  Streicher,  an  eyewitness  of 
this  visit,  says,  “The  healthy,  cheerful  and  blooming  Maiden 
1 Beziehungen , p.  217  n. 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


270 

had  determined  to  share  her  future  lot  with  a man,  whose 
small  income  and  uncertain  health  seemed  to  promise  little 
joy.  Nevertheless  her  reasons  were  of  so  noble  a sort,  that 
she  never  repented,  in  times  following,  this  sacrifice  of  her 
fancy  to  her  understanding,  and  to  a husband  of  real  worth.”  1 
They  were  married  “June  1786  and  for  the  next  thirty,  or 
indeed  in  all,  sixty  years,  Christophine  lived  in  her  dark 
new  home  at  Meiningen  ; and  never,  except  in  that  melan- 
choly time  of  sickness,  mortality  and  war,  appears  to  have 
seen  Native  Land  and  Parents  again. 

What  could  have  induced,  in  the  calm  and  well-discerning 
Christophine,  such  a resolution,  is  by  no  means  clear ; Saupe, 
with  hesitation,  seems  to  assign  a religious  motive,  “ the  de- 
sire of  doing  good.”  Had  that  abrupt  and  peremptory  dis- 
missal of  Lieutenant  Miller  perhaps  something  to  do  with  it  ? 
Probably  her  Father’s  humour  on  the  matter,  at  all  times  so 
anxious  and  zealous  to  see  his  Daughters  settled,  had  a chief 
effect.  It  is  certain,  Christophine  consulted  her  Parish  Clergy- 
man on  the  affair  ; and  got  from  him,  as  Saupe  shows  us,  an 
affirmatory  or  at  least  permissive  response.  Certain  also  that 
she  summoned  her  own  best  insight  of  ail  kinds  to  the  sub- 
ject, and  settled  it  calmly  and  irrevocably  with  whatever 
faculty  was  in  her. 

To  the  candid  observer  Reinwald’s  gloomy  ways  were  not 
without  their  excuse.  Scarcely  above  once  before  this,  in  his 
now  longish  life,  had  any  gleam  of  joy  or  success  shone  on 
him,  to  cheer  the  strenuous  and  never-abated  struggle.  His 
father  had  been  Tutor  to  the  Prince  of  Meiningen,  who  be- 
came Duke  afterwards,  and  always  continued  to  hold  him  in 
honour.  Father’s  death  had  taken  place  in  1751,  young 
Eeinwald  then  in  his  fourteenth  year.  After  passing  with 
distinction  his  three-years  curriculum  at  Jena,  Eeinwald  re- 
turned to  Meiningen,  expecting  employment  and  preferment ; 
- — the  rather  perhaps  as  his  Mother’s  bit  of  property  got  much 
ruined  in  the  Seven-Years  War  then  raging.  Employment 
Eeinwald  got,  but  of  the  meanest  Kanzlist  (Clerkship)  kind  ; 
and  year  after  year,  in  spite  of  his  merits,  patient  faithfulness 
1 Schwab,  p.  173,  citing  Streiclier’s  words. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


271 


and  undeniable  talent,  no  preferment  whatever.  At  length, 
however,  in  1762,  the  Duke,  perhaps  enlightened  by  ex- 
perience as  to  Reinwald,  or  by  personal  need  of  such  a talent, 
did  send  him  as  Geheimer  Kanzlist  (kind  of  Private  Secretary) 
to  Vienna,  with  a view  to  have  from  him  reports  “ about 
politics  and  literary  objects  ” there.  This  was  an  extremely 
enjoyable  position  for  the  young  man ; but  it  lasted  only  till 
the  Duke’s  death,  which  followed  within  two  years.  Rein- 
wald was  then  immediately  recalled  by  the  new  Duke  (who, 
I think,  had  rather  been  in  controversy  with  his  Predecessor), 
and  thrown  back  to  nearly  his  old  position  ; where,  without 
any  regard  had  to  his  real  talents  and  merits,  he  continued  thir- 
teen years,  under  the  title  of  Consistorial  Kanzlist  ; and,  with 
the  miserablest  fraction  of  yearly  pay,  * carried  on  the  slavish, 
spirit-killing  labours  required  of  him.’  In  1776, — uncertain 
whether  as  promotion  or  as  mere  abridgment  of  labour, — he 
was  placed  in  the  Library  as  now  ; that  is  to  say,  had  become 
Su ^-Librarian,  at  a salary  of  about  15/.,  with  all  the  Library 
duties  to  do  ; an  older  and  more  favoured  gentleman,  perhaps 
in  lieu  of  pension,  enjoying  the  Upper  Office,  and  doing  none 
of  the  work. 

Under  these  continual  pressures  and  discouragements,  poor 
Reinwald’s  heart  had  got  hardened  into  mutinous  indignation, 
and  his  health  had  broken  down  : so  that,  by  this  time,  he  was 
noted  in  his  little  world  as  a solitary,  taciturn,  morose  and 
gloomy  man  ; but  greatly  respected  by  the  few  who  knew  him 
better,  as  a clear-headed,  true  and  faithful  person,  much  dis- 
tinguished by  intellectual  clearness  and  veracity,  by  solid 
scholarly  acquirements  and  sterling  worth  of  character.  To 
bring  a little  help  or  cheerful  alleviation  to  such  a down- 
pressed  man,  if  a wise  and  gentle  Christophine  could  accom- 
plish it,  would  surely  be  a bit  of  welldoing  ; but  it  was  an 
extremely  difficult  one  ! 

The  marriage  was  childless  ; not,  in  the  first,  or  in  any  times 
of  it,  to  be  called  unhappy  ; but,  as  the  weight  of  years  was 
added,  Christophine’s  problem  grew  ever  more  difficult.  She 
was  of  a compassionate  nature,  and  had  a loving,  patient,  and 
noble  heart ; prudent  she  was  ; the  skilfulest  and  thriftiest  of 


272 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


financiers  ; could  well  keep  silence,  too,  and  with  a gentle  sto- 
icism endure  much  small  unreason.  Saupe  says  withal,  ‘ No- 
body liked  a laugh  better,  or  could  laugh  more  heartily  than 
she,  even  in  her  extreme  old  age.’ — -Christophine  herself  makes 
no  complaint,  on  looking  back  upon  her  poor  Eeinwald,  thirty 
years  after  all  was  over.  Her  final  record  of  it  is:  “for 
twenty-nine  years  we  lived  contentedly  together.”  But  her 
rugged  hypochondriac  of  a Husband,  morbidly  sensitive  to  the 
least  interruption  of  his  whims  and  habitudes,  never  absent 
from  their  one  dim  sitting-room,  except  on  the  days  in  which 
he  had  to  attend  at  the  Library,  was  iu  practice  infinitely  diffi- 
cult to  deal  with  ; and  seems  to  have  kept  her  matchless  qual- 
ities in  continual  exercise.  He  belonged  to  the  class  called  in 
Germany  Stubengelehrten  (Closet  Literary-men),  who  publish 
little  or  nothing  that  brings  them  profit,  but  are  continually 
poring  and  studying.  Study  was  the  one  consolation  he  had 
in  life  ; and  formed  his  continual  employment  to  the  end  of 
his  days.  He  was  deep  in  various  departments.  Antiquarian } 
Philological,  Historical  ; deep  especially  in  Gothic  philology, 
in  which  last  he  did  what  is  reckoned  a real  feat, — he,  Eein- 
wald,  though  again  it  was  another  who  got  the  reward.  He 
had  procured  somewhere,  ‘ a Transcript  of  the  famous  Anglo- 
Saxon  Poem  Heliancl  (Saviour)  from  the  Cotton  Library  in 
England,’  this  he,  with  unwearied  labour  and  to  great  perfec- 
tion, had  at  last  got  ready  for  the  press  ; Translation,  Glos- 
sary, Original  all  in  readiness  ; — but  could  find  no  Publisher, 
nobody  that  would  print  without  a premium.  Not  to  earn 
less  than  nothing  by  his  labour  he  sent  the  Work  to  the  IL'in- 
clien  Library  ; where,  in  after  years,  one  Schmeller  found  it, 
and  used  it  for  an  editio  princeps  of  his-  own.  Sic  vos  non 
vobis  ; heavy-laden  Eeinwald  ! — 1 

To  Eeinwald  himself  Chlistophine’s  presence  and  presi- 
dency in  his  dim  household  were  an  infinite  benefit, — though 
not  much  recognised  by  him,  but  accepted  rather  as  a natural 
tribute  due  to  unfortunate  down-pressed  worth,  till  towards 
the  very  end,  when  the  singular  merit  of  it  began  to  dawn 

1 Schiller's  Bsziehvngen  (where  many  of  Christophine’ s Letters , beau- 
tiful all  of  them,  are  given). 


SUPPLEMENT. 


273 


upon  him,  like  the  brightness  of  the  Sun  when  it  is  setting. 
Poor  man,  he  anxiously  spent  the  last  two  weeks  of  his  life  in 
purchasing  and  settling  about  a neat  little  cottage  for  Christo- 
phine  ; where  accordingly  she  passed  her  long  widowhood,  on 
stiller  terms,  though  not  on  less  beneficent  and  humbly  beau- 
tiful, than  her  marriage  had  offered. 

Cliristophine,  by  pious  prudence,  faith  in  Heaven,  and  in 
the  good  fruits  of  real  goodness  even  on  Earth,  had  greatly 
comforted  the  gloomy,  disappointed,  pain-stricken  man  ; en- 
lightened his  darkness,  and  made  his  poverty  noble.  Simplex 
munditiis  might  have  been  her  motto  in  all  things.  Her 
beautiful  Letters  to  her  Brother  are  full  of  cheerful,  though 
also,  it  is  true,  sad  enough,  allusions  to  her  difficulties  with 
Reinwald,  and  partial  successes.  Poor  soul,  her  hopes,  too, 
are  gently  turned  sometimes  on  a blessed  future,  which  might 
still  lie  ahead  : of  her  at  last  coming,  as  a Widow,  to  live  with 
her  Brother,  in  serene  affection,  like  that  of  their  childhood 
together  ; in  a calm  blessedness  such  as  the  world  held  no 
other  for  her  ! But  gloomy  Reinwald  survived  bright  Schiller 
for  above  ten  years  ; and  she  had  thirty  more  of  lone  widow- 
hood, under  limited  conditions,  to  spend  after  him,  still  in  a 
noble,  humbly-admirable,  and  even  happy  and  contented  man- 
ner. She  was  the  flower  of  the  Schiller  Sisterhood,  though 
all  three  are  beautiful  to  us  ; and  in  poor  Nane,  there  is  even 
something  of  poetic,  and  tragically  pathetic.  For  one  bless- 
ing, Christophine  ‘ lived  almost  always  in  good  health.’ 
Through  life,  it  may  be  said  of  her,  she  was  helpful  to  all 
about  her,  never  liindersome  to  any  ; and  merited,  and  had, 
the  universal  esteem,  from  high  and  low,  pf  those  she  had 
lived  among.  At  Meiningen,  31st  August  1817,  within  a few 
days  of  her  ninety-first  year,  without  almost  one  day’s  sick- 
ness, a gentle  stroke  of  apoplexy  took  her  suddenly  away, 
and  so  ended  what  may  be  called  a Secular  Saint-like  ex- 
istence, mournfully  beautiful,  wise  and  noble  to  all  that  had 
beheld  it. 


18 


274 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Nanette  ( born  8th  September  1777,  died  23 d March  1796  ; age 
not  yet  19). 

Of  Nanette  we  were  told  how,  in  1792,  she  charmed  her 
Brother  and  his  Jena  circle,  by  her  recitations  and  her  amiable 
enthusiastic  nature  ; and  how,  next  year,  on  Schiller’s  Swa- 
bian visit,  his  love  of  her  grew  to  something  of  admiration, 
and  practical  hope  of  helping  such  a rich  talent  and  noble 
heart  into  some  clear  development, — when,  two  years  after- 
wards, death  put,  to  the  dear  Nanette  and  his  hopes  about 
her,  a cruel  end.  We  are  now  to  give  the  first  budding-out 
of  those  fine  talents  and  tendencies  of  poor  Nanette,  and 
that  is  all  the  history  the  dear  little  Being  has.  Saupe  pro- 
ceeds : 

‘ Some  two  years  after  Schiller’s  flight,  Nanette  as  a child 
of  six  or  seven  had,  with  her  elder  sister  Luise,  witnessed 
the  first  representation  of  Schiller’s  Kabale  und  Liebe  in  the 
Stuttgart  theatre.  With  great  excitement,  and  breath  held- 
in,  she  had  watched  the  rolling-up  of  the  curtain  ; and  during 
the  whole  play  no  word  escaped  her  bps  ; but  the  excited 
glance  of  her  eyes,  and  her  heightened  colour,  from  act  to 
act,  testified  her  intense  emotion.  The  stormy  applause  with 
which  her  Brother’s  Play  was  received  by  the  audience  made 
an  indelible  impression  on  her. 

‘ The  Players,  in  particular,  had  shone  before  her  as  in  a 
magic  light ; the  splendour  of  which,  in  the  course  of  years, 
rather  increased  than  diminished.  The  child’s  bright  fancy 
loved  to  linger  on  those  never-to-be-forgotten  people,  by  whom 
her  Brother’s  Poem  had  been  led  into  her  sight  and  under- 
standing. The  dawning  thought,  how  glorious  it  might  be  to 
work  such  wonders  herself,  gradually  settled,  the  more  she 
read  and  heard  of  her  dear  Brother’s  poetic  achievements,  into 
the  ardent  but  secret  wish  of  being  herself  able  to  represent 
his  Tragedies  upon  the  stage.  On  her  visit  to  Jena,  and  dur- 
ing her  Brother’s  abode  in  Swabia,  she  was  never  more 
attentive  than  when  Schiller  occasionally  spoke  of  the  acting 
of  his  Pieces,  or  unfolded  his  opinion  of  the  Player’s  Aid. 

‘ The  wish  of  Nanette,  secretly  nourished  in  this  manner, 


SUPPLEMENT. 


275 


to  be  able,  on  the  stage,  which  represents  the  world,  to  con- 
tribute to  the  glory  of  her  Brother,  seized  her  now  after  his 
return  with  such  force  and  constancy,  that  Schiller’s  Sister-in- 
law,  Caroline  Yon  Wolzogen,  urged  him  to  yield  to  the  same  ; 
to  try  his  Sister’s  talent  ; and  if  it  was  really  distinguished, 
to  let  her  enter  this  longed-for  career.  Schiller  had  no  love 
for  the  Player  Profession  ; but  as,  in  his  then  influential  con- 
nections in  Weimar,  he  might  steer  clear  of  many  a danger, 
he  promised  to  think  the  thing  over.  And  thus  this  kind  and 
amiable  protectress  had  the  satisfaction  of  cheering  Nanette’s 
last  months  with  the  friendly  prospect  that  her  wishes  might 
be  fulfilled.— Schiller’s  hope,  after  a dialogue  with  Goethe  on 
the  subject,  had  risen  to  certainty,  when  with  the  liveliest  sor- 
row he  learned  that  Nanette  was  ill  of  that  contagious  Hos- 
pital Fever,  and,  in  a few  days  more,  that  she  was  gone  for- 
ever.’ 1 

Beautiful  Nanette  ; with  such  a softly-glowing  soul,  and 
such  a brief  tragically-beautiful  little  life  ! Like  a Daughter 
of  the  rosy-fingered  Morn  ; her  existence  all  a sun-gilt  soft 
auroral  cloud,  and  no  sultry  Day,  with  its  dusts  and  disfigure- 
ments, permitted  to  follow.  Father  Schiller  seems,  in  his 
rugged  way,  to  have  loved  Nanette  best  of  them  all ; in  an 
embarrassed  manner,  wTe  find  him  more  than  once  recom- 
mending her  to  Schiller’s  help,  and  intimating  what  a glorious 
thing  for  her,  were  it  a possible  one,  education-  might  be. 
He  followed  her  in  a few  months  to  her  long  home  ; and,  by 
his  own  direction,  ‘ was  buried  in  the  Churchyard  at  Gerlingen 
by  her  side.’ 

Luise  ( born  24G  January  1766  ; married  20 th  October  1799  ; 
died  1 4:th  September  1836). 

Of  Luise’s  life,  too,  except  what  was  shown  above,  there 
need  little  be  said.  In  the  dismal  pestilential  days  at  Solitude, 
while  her  Father  lay  dying,  and  poor  Nanette  caught  the  in- 
fection, Luise,  with  all  her  tender  assiduities  and  household 
talent,  was  there  ; but,  soon  after  Nanette’s  death,  the  fever 
seized  her  too  ; and  she  long  lay  dangerously  ill  in  that  forlorn 
1 Saufte,  pp.  150-5. 


276 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


household  ; still  weak,  but  slowly  recovering,  when  Cliristo- 
phine  arrived. 

The  Father,  a short  while  before  his  death,  summoned  to 
him  that  excellent  young  clergyman,  Frankh,  who  had  been 
so  unweariedly  kind  to  them  in  this  time  of  sickness  when  all 
neighbours  feared  to  look  in,  To  ask  him  what  his  intentions  to- 
wards Luise  were.  It  was  in  presence  of  the  good  old  man  that 
they  made  solemn  promise  to  each  other  ; and  at  Leonberg, 
where  thenceforth  the  now-widowed  Mother’s  dwelling  wras, 
they  were  formally  betrothed  ; and  some  two  years  after  that, 
were  married. 

Her  Mother’s  death,  so  tenderly  watched  over,  took  place  at 
their  Parsonage  at  Clever-Sulzbach,  as  we  saw  above.  Frankh, 
about  two  years  after,  was  promoted  to  a better  living,  M<> ch- 
in uhl  by  name ; and  lived  there,  a well-doing  and  respected 
Parson,  till  his  death,  in  1834  ; which  Luise’s  followed  in  Sep- 
tember of  the  second  year  afterwards.  Their  marriage  lasted 
thirty -five  years.  Luise  had  brought  him  three  children  ; and 
seems  to  have  been,  in  all  respects,  an  excellent  Wife.  She 
was  ingenious  in  intellectuals  as  well  as  economics  ; had  a taste 
for  poetry  ; a boundless  enthusiasm  for  her  Brother  ; seems  to 
have  been  an  anxious  Mother,  often  ailing  herself,  but  strenu- 
ously doing  her  best  at  all  times. 

A touching  memorial  of  Luise  is  Schiller’s  last  Letter  to 
her,  Letter  of  affectionate  apology  for  long  silence, — apology, 
and  hope  of  doing  better, — written  only  a few  weeks  before 
his  own  death.  It  is  as  follows  : 

“ Weimar,  27th  March  1805. 

“Yes,  it  is  a long  time  indeed,  good  dear  Luise,  since  I 
have  written  to  thee  ; but  it  was  not  for  amusements  that  I for- 
got thee  ; it  was  because  in  this  time  I have  had  so  many  hard 
illnesses  to  suffer,  which  put  me  altogether  out  of  my  regular 
way  ; for  many  months  I had  lost  all  courage  and  cheerful- 
ness, and  given  up  all  hope  of,  my  recovery.  In  such  a humour 
one  does  not  like  to  speak  ; and  since  then,  on  feeling  myself 
again  better,  there  was,  after  the  long  silence,  a kind  of  em- 
barrassment ; and  so  it  was  still  put  off.  But  now,  when  I have 
been  anew  encouraged  by  thy  sisterly  love,  I gladly  join  the 
thread  again  ; and  it  shall,  if  God  will,  not  again  be  broken. 


SUPPLEMENT. 


“Thy  dear  husband’s  promotion  to  Moekmuhl,  which  I 
learned  eight  days  ago  from  our  Sister  ” (Christophine),  “ has 
given  us  great  joy,  not  only  because  it  so  much  improves  your 
position,  but  also  because  it  is  so  honourable  a testimony  for 
my  dear  Brother-in-law’s  deserts.  May  you  feel  yourselves 
right  happy  in  these  new  relations,  and  right  long  enjoy  them  ! 
We  too  are  got  thereby  a few  miles  nearer  you  ; and  on  a 
future  journey  to  Franconia,  which  we  are  every  year  project- 
ing, we  may  the  more  easily  get  over  to  you. 

“ How  sorry  am  I,  dear  Sister,  that  thy  health  has  suffered 
so  much  ; and  that  thou  wert  again  so  unfortunate  with  thy 
confinement ! Perhaps  your  new  situation  might  permit  you, 
this  summer,  to  visit  some  tonic  watering-place,  which  might 
do  thee  a great  deal  of  good.” — 

“ Of  our  Family  here  my  Wife  will  write  thee  more  at  large. 
Our  Children,  this  winter,  have  all  had  chicken-pox  ; and  poor 
little  Emilie  ” (a  babe  of  four  months)  “ had  much  to  suffer  in 
the  affair.  Thank  God,  things  are  all  come  round  with  us 
again,  and  my  own  health  too  begins  to  confirm  itself. 

“A  thousand  times  I embrace  thee,  dear  Sister,  and  my 
dear  Brother-in-law  as  well,  whom  I always  wish  from  the 
heart  to  have  more  acquaintance  with.  Kiss  thy  Children  in 
my  name  ; may  all  go  right  happily  with  you,  and  much  joy 
be  in  store  ! How  would  our  dear  Parents  have  rejoiced  in 
your  good  fortune  ; and  especially  our  dear  Mother,  had  she 
been  spared  to  see  it ! Adieu,  dear  Luise.  With  my  whole 
soul, — Thy  faithful  Brother,  Schillek.” 

Schiller’s  tone  and  behaviour  to  his  Sisters  is  always  beau- 
tifully human  and  brotherlike,  as  here.  Full  of  affection,  sin- 
cerity and  the  warmest,  truest  desire  to  help  and  cheer.  The 
noble  loving  Schiller  ; so  mindful  always  of  the  lowly,  from  his 
own  wildly-dangerous  and  lofty  path  ! He  -was  never  rich, 
poor  rather  always  ; but  of  a spirit  royally  munificent  in  these 
respects  ; never  forgets  the  poor  “ birthdays  ” of  his  Sisters, 
whom  one  finds  afterwards  gratefully  recognising  their  “ beau- 
tiful dress  ” or  the  like ! — 


Of  date  some  six  weeks  after  this  Letter  to  Luise,  let  us 
take  from  Eyewitnesses  one  glimpse  of  Schiller’s  own  death- 


278 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  hG HILLER. 


bed.  It  is  the  eighth  day  of  Lis  illness ; Lis  last  day  but  one 
in  this  world : 

“ Morning  of  8th  May  1805. — —Schiller,  on  awakening  from 
sleep,  asked  to  see  Lis  youngest  Child.  The  Baby  ’ Emilie, 
spoken  of  above,  ‘ was  brought.  He  turned  his  head  round  ; 
took  the  little  hand  in  his,  and,  with  an  inexpressible  look  of 
love  and  sorrow,  gazed  into  the  little  face ; then  burst  into 
bitter  weeping,  hid  his  face  among  the  pillows  ; and  made  a 
sign  to  take  the  child  away.’ — This  little  Emilie  is  now  the 
Baroness  von  Gleichen,  Co-editress  with  her  Cousin  Wolzogen 
of  the  clear  and  useful  Bool?,  Beziejiungen,  often  quoted  above. 
It  was  to  that  same  Cousin  Wolzogeris  Mother  (Caroline  von 
Wolzogen,  Authoress  of  the  Biography),  and  in  the  course  of 
this  same  day,  that  Schiller  made  the  memorable  response, 
“Calmer,  and  calmer.” — ‘Towards  evening  he  asked  to  see 
the  Sun  once  more.  The  curtain  was  opened  ; with  blight 
eyes  and  face  he  gazed  into  the  beautiful  sunset.  It  was  his 
last  farewell  to  Nature. 

“ Thursday  9th  May.  All  the  morning,  his  mind  was  wan- 
dering ; he  spoke  incoherent  words,  mostly  in  Latin.  About 
three  in  the  afternoon,  complete  weakness  came  on ; his 
breathing  began  to  be  interrupted.  About  four,  he  asked  for 
naphtha,  but  the  last  syllable  died  on  his  tongue.  He  tried 
to  write,  but  produced  only  three  letters  ; in  which,  however, 
the  character  of  his  hand  was  still  visible.  Till  towards  six, 
no  change.  His  Wife  was  kneeling  at  the  bedside  ; he  still 
pressed  her  offered  hand.  His  Sister-in-law  stood,  with  the 
Doctor,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  laid  warm  pillows  on  his 
feet,  which  were  growing  cold.  There  now  darted,  as  it  were, 
an  electrical  spasm  over  all  his  countenance  ; the  head  sank 
back ; the  profoundest  repose  transfigured  his  face.  His 
features  were  as  those  of  one  softly  sleeping,” — wrapt  in  hard- 
won  Victory  and  Peace  forever ! ‘ — 

1 Schwab,  p.  627,  citing  Yoss,  an  eyewitness;  and  Caroline  von  Wolzo- 
gen herself. 


APPENDIX. 


No.  1.  Page  31. 

DANIEL  SCHUBART. 

The  enthusiastic  discontent  so  manifest  in  the  Robbers  has  hy  some  been 
in  part  attributed  to  Schiller's  intercourse  with  Sehubart.  This  seems 
as  wise  as  the  hypothesis  of  Gray’s  Alderman,  who,  after  half  a century 
of  turtle-soup,  imputed  the  ruin  of  his  health  to  eating  two  unripe 
grapes:  ‘lie  felt  them  cold  upon  his  stomach,  the  moment  they  were 
over  ; he  never  got  the  better  of  them.’  Schiller,  it  appears,  saw  Schu- 
bart  only  once,  and  their  conversation  was  not  of  a confidential  kind. 
For  any  influence  this  interview  could  have  produced  upon  the  former, 
the  latter  could  have  merited  no  mention  here  : it  is  on  other  grounds 
that  we  refer  to  him.  Scliubart’s  history,  not  devoid  of  interest  in  it- 
self, unfolds  in  a striking  light  the  circumstances  under  which  Schiller 
stood  at  present ; and  may  serve  to  justify  the  violence  of  his  alarms, 
which  to  the  happy  natives  of  our  Island  might  otherwise  appear  pusil- 
lanimous and  excessive.  For  these  reasons  we  subjoin  a sketch  of  it. 

Schubart’s  character  is  not  a new  one  in  literature  ; nor  is  it  strange 
that  his  life  should  have  been  unfortunate.  A warm  genial  spirit ; a 
glowing  fancy,  and  a friendly  heart  ; every  faculty  but  diligence,  and 
every  virtue  but  ‘ the  understrapping  virtue  of  discretion  : ’ such  is  fre- 
quently the  constitution  of  the  poet ; the  natural  result  of  it  also  has 
frequently  been  pointed  out,  and  sufficient^'  bewailed.  This  man  was 
one  of  the  many  who  navigate  the  ocean  of  life  with  ‘ more  sail  than 
ballast ; ’ his  voyage  contradicted  every  rule  of  seamanship,  and  neces- 
sarily ended  in  a wreck. 

Christian  Friedrich  Daniel  Scliubart  was  born  at  Obersontlieim  in 
Swabia,  on  the  26th  of  April  1739.  His  father,  a well-meaning  soul, 
officiated  there  in  the  multiple  capacity  of  schoolmaster,  precentor,  and 
curate  ; dignities  which,  with  various  mutations  and  improvements,  he 
subsequently  held  in  several  successive  villages  of  the  same  district. 
Daniel,  from  the  first,  was  a thing  of  inconsistencies  ; his  life  proceeded 
as  if  by  fits  and  starts.  At  school,  for  a while,  he  lay  dormant : at  the 


2S0 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


age  of  seven  he  could  not  read,  and  had  acquired  the  reputation  of  a per- 
fect dunce.  But  ‘ all  at  once,’  says  his  biographer,  ‘ the  rind  which  en- 
closed his  spirit  started  asunder  ; ' and  Daniel  became  the  prodigy  of  the 
school ! His  good  father  determined  to  make  a learned  man  of  him  : 
he  sent  him  at  the  age  of  fourteen  to  the  Kordlingen  Lyceum,  and  two 
years  afterwards  to  a similar  establishment  at  Nurnberg.  Here  Scliubart 
began  to  flourish  with  all  his  natural  luxuriance  ; read  classical  and 
domestic  poets  ; spouted,  speculated  ; wrote  flowing  songs  ; discovered 
1 a decided  turn  for  music,’  and  even  composed  tunes  for  the  harpsi- 
chord ! In  short,  he  became  an  acknowledged  genius  ; and  his  parents 
consented  that  he  should  go  to  Jena,  and  perform  his  cursus  of  The- 
ology. 

Schubart’s  purposes  were  not  at  all  like  the  decrees  of  Fate  : he  set 
out  towards  Jena  ; and  on  arriving  at  Erlangen,  resolved  to  proceed  no 
farther,  but  perform  his  cursus  where  he  was.  For  a time  he  studied 
well ; but  afterwards  ‘ tumultuously, ’ that  is,  in  violent  fits,  alternating 
with  fits  as  violent  of  idleness  and  debauchery.  He  became  a BurscJie 
of  the  first  water  ; drank  and  declaimed,  rioted  and  ran  in  debt ; till  his 
parents,  unable  any  longer  to  support  such  expenses,  were  glad  to  seize 
the  first  opening  in  his  cursus,  and  recall  him.  He  returned  to  them 
with  a mind  fevered  by  intemperance,  and  a constitution  permanently 
injured  ; his  heart  burning  with  regret,  and  vanity,  and  love  of  pleas- 
ure ; his  head  without  habits  of  activity  or  principles  of  judgment,  a 
whirlpool  where  fantasies  and  hallucinations  and  ‘fragments  of  science’ 
were  chaotically  jumbled  to  and  fro.  But  he  could  babble  college- 
Latin  ; and  talk  with  a trenchant  tone  about  the  ‘ revolutions  of  Philos- 
ophy. ’ Such  accomplishments  procured  him  pardon  from  his  parents : 
the  precentorial  spirit  of  his  father  was  more  than  reconciled  on  discov- 
ering that  Daniel  could  also  preach  and  play  upon  the  organ.  The 
good  old  people  still  loved  their  prodigal,  and  would  not  eease  to  hope 
in  him. 

As  a preacher  Scliubart  was  at  first  very  popular  ; he  imitated  Cra- 
mer ; but  at  the  same  time  manifested  first-rate  pulpit  talents  of  his  own. 
These,  however,  he  entirely  neglected  to  improve  : presuming  on  his 
gifts  and  their  acceptance,  he  began  to  ‘ play  such  fantastic  tricks  be- 
fore high  Heaven,’  as  made  his  audience  sink  to  yawning,  or  explode 
in  downright  laughter.  He  often  preached  extempore ; once  he 
preached  in  verse  ! His  love  of  company  and  ease  diverted  him  from 
study : his  musical  propensities  diverted  him  still  farther.  He  had 
special  gifts  as  an  organist  ; but  to  handle  the  concordance  and  to  make 
1 the  heaving  bellows  learn  to  blow  ’ were  inconsistent  things. 

Yet  withal  it  was  impossible  to  hate  poor  Scliubart,  or  even  seri- 
ously to  dislike  him.  A joyful,  piping,  guileless  mortal,  good  nature, 
innocence  of  heart,  and  love  of  frolic  beamed  from  every  feature  of  his 
countenance  ; he  wished  no  ill  to  any  son  of  Adam.  He  was  music.-1 


APPENDIX. 


281 


and  poetical,  a maker  and  a singer  of  sweet  songs  ; humorous  also, 
speculative,  discursive  ; his  speech,  though  aimless  and  redundant,  glit- 
tered with  the  hues  of  fancy,  and  here  and  there  with  the  keenest  rays 
of  intellect.  He  was  vain,  but  had  no  touch  of  pride  ; and  the  excel- 
lencies which  he  loved  in  himself,  he  acknowledged  and  as  warmly 
loved  in  others.  He  was  a man  of  few  or  no  principles,  but  his  nervous 
system  was  very  good.  Amid  his  chosen  comrades,  a jug  of  indifferent 
beer  and  a pipe  of  tobacco  could  change  the  earth  into  elysium  for  him, 
and  make  his  brethren  demigods.  To  look  at  his  laughing  eyes,  and 
his  effulgent  honest  face,  you  were  tempted  to  forget  that  he  was  a per- 
jured priest,  that  the  world  had  duties  for  him  which  he  was  neglect- 
ing. Had  life  been  all  a may-game,  Schubart  was  the  best  of  men,  and 
the  wisest  of  philosophers. 

Unluckily  it  was  not : the  voice  of  Duty  had  addressed  him  in  vain  ; 
but  that  of  want  was  more  impressive.  He  left  his  father’s  house,  and 
engaged  himself  as  tutor  in  a family  at  Konigsbronn.  To  teach  the 
young  idea  how  to  shoot  had  few  delights  for  Schubart : he  soon  gave 
up  this  place  in  favour  of  a younger  brother  ; and  endeavoured  to  sub- 
sist, for  some  time,  by  affording  miscellaneous  assistance  to  the  clergy 
of  the  neighbouring  villages.  Ere  long,  preferring  even  pedagog}r  to 
starvation,  he  again  became  a teacher.  The  bitter  morsel  was  sweet- 
ened with  a seasoning  of  music  ; he  was  appointed  not  only  schoolmaster 
but  also  organist  of  Geisslingen.  A fit  of  diligence  now  seized  him : 
his  late  difficulties  had  impressed  him  ; and  the  parson  of  the  place,  who 
subsequently  married  Schubart’s  sister,  was  friendly  and  skilful  enough 
to  turn  the  impression  to  account.  Had  poor  Schubart  always  been  in 
such  hands,  the  epithet  ‘ poor  ’ could  never  have  belonged  to  him. 
In  this  little  village- school  he  introduced  some  important  reforms  and 
improvements,  and  in  consequence  attracted  several  valuable  scholars. 
Also  for  his  own  behoof,  he  studied  honestly.  His  conduct  here,  if  not 
irrepreliensible,  was  at  least  very  much  amended.  His  marriage,  in  his 
twenty-fifth  year,  might  have  improved  it  still  farther  ; for  his  wife  was 
a good,  soft-hearted,  amiable  creature,  who  loved  him  with  her  whole 
heart,  and  would  have  died  to  serve  him. 

But  new  preferments  awaited  Schubart,  and  with  them  new  tempta- 
tions. His  fame  as  a musician  was  deservedly  extending : in  time  it 
reached  Ludwigsburg,  and  the  Grand  Duke  of  Wurtemberg  himself 
heard  Schubart  spoken  of  ! The  schoolmaster  of  Geisslingen  was,  in 
1768,  promoted  to  be  organist  and  band-director  in  this  gay  and  pom- 
pous court.  With  a bounding  heart,  he  tossed  away  his  ferula,  and  has- 
tened to  the  scene,  where  joys  for  evermore  seemed  calling  on  him.  He 
plunged  into  the  heart  of  business,  and  amusement.  Besides  the  music 
which  he  taught  and  played,  publicly  and  privately,  with  great  applause, 
he  gave  the  military  officers  instruction  in  various  branches  of  science  ; 
he  talked  and  feasted  ; he  indited  songs  and  rhapsodies  ; he  lectured 


282 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


on  History  and  the  Belles  Lettres.  All  this  was  more  than  Schnhart’s 
head  could  stand.  In  a little  time  he  fell  in  debt ; took  up  with  vir- 
tuosi ; began  to  read  Voltaire,  and  talk  against  religion  in  his  drink. 
From  the  rank  of  genius,  he  was  fast  degenerating  into  that  of  profli- 
gate : his  affairs  grew  more  and  more  embarrassed  ; and  he  had  no  gift 
of  putting  any  order  in  them.  Prudence  was  not  one  of  Schubart’s 
virtues ; the  nearest  approximation  he  could  make  to  it  was  now  and 
then  a little  touch  of  cunning.  His  wife  still  loved  him  ; loved  him  with 
that  perverseness  of  affection,  which  increases  in  the  inverse  ratio  of  its 
requital : she  had  long  patiently  endured  his  follies  and  neglect, 
happy  if  she  could  obtain  a transient  hour  of  kindness  from  him.  But 
his  endless  course  of  riot,  and  the  straits  to  which  it  had  reduced  their 
hapless  family,  at  length  overcame  her  spirits  : she  grew  melancholy, 
almost  broken-hearted ; and  her  father  took  her  home  to  him,  with  her 
children,  from  the  spendthrift  who  had  been  her  ruin.  Schubart’s 
course  in  Ludwigsburg  was  verging  to  its  close ; his  extravagance  in- 
creased, and  debts  pressed  heavier  and  heavier  on  him:  for  some 
scandal  with  a young  woman  of  the  place,  he  was  cast  into  prison  ; and 
let  out  of  it,  with  an  injunction  forthwith  to  quit  the  dominions  of  the 
Grand  Duke. 

Forlorn  and  homeless,  here  then  was  Schubart  footing  the  hard 
highway,  with  a staff  in  his  hand,  and  one  solitary  thaler  in  his  purse, 
not  knowing  whither  he  should  go.  At  Heilbronn,  the  Burgermeister 
Wachs  permitted  him  to  teach  his  Biirgermeisterinn  the  harpsichord  ; 
and  Schubart  did  not  die  of  hunger.  For  a space  of  time  he  wandered 
to  and  fro,  with  numerous  impracticable  plans  ; nowtalking  for  his  vict- 
uals ; now  lecturing  or  teaching  music  ; kind  people  now  attracted  to 
him  by  his  genius  and  misfortunes,  and  anon  repelled  from  him  by  the 
faults  which  bad  abased  him.  Once  a gleam  of  court-preferment  re- 
visited his  path : the  Elector  Palatine  was  made  acquainted  with  his 
gifts,  and  sent  for  him  to  Schwetzingen  to  play  before  him.  His  play- 
ing gratified  the  Electoral  ear  ; he  would  have  been  provided  for,  had 
he  not  in  conversation  with  his  Highness  happened  to  express  a rather 
free  opinion  of  the  Mannheim  Academy,  which  at  that  time  was  his 
Highness’s  hobby.  On  the  instant  of  this  luckless  oversight,  the  door 
of  patronage  was  slammed  in  Schubart’s  face,  and  he  stood  solitary  on 
the  pavement  as  before. 

One  Count  Sclimettau  took  pity  on  him  ; offered  him  his  purse  and 
home  ; both  of  which  the  way-worn  wanderer  was  happy  to  accept.  At 
Schmettau’s  he  fell  in  with  Baron  Leiden,  the  Bavarian  envoy,  who  ad- 
vised him  to  turn  Catholic,  and  accompany  the  returning  embassy  to 
Munich.  Schubart  hesitated  to  become  a renegade  ; but  departed  with 
his  new  patron,  upon  trial.  In  the  way,  he  played  before  the  Bishop 
of  Wurzburg  ; was  rewarded  by  his  Princely  Reverence  with  gold  as  well 
as  praise  ; and  arrived  under  happy  omens  at  Munich.  Here  for  a while 


APPENDIX. 


2S3 


fortune  seemed  to  smile  on  him  again.  The  houses  of  the  great  were 
thrown  open  to  him  ; he  talked  and  played,  and  fared  sumptuously 
every  day.  He  took  serious  counsel  with  himself  about  the  great  Popish 
question  ; now  inclining  this  way,  now  that : he  was  puzzling  which  to 
choose,  when  Chance  entirely  relieved  him  of  the  trouble.  ‘ A person  of 
respectability  ’ in  Munich  wrote  to  Wurtemberg  to  make  inquiries  who 
or  what  this  general  favourite  was ; and  received  for  answer,  that  the 
general  favourite  was  a villain,  and  had  been  banished  from  Ludwigs- 
burg  for  denying  that  there  was  a Holy  Ghost !— Schubart  was  happy 
to  evacuate  Munich  without  tap  of  drum. 

Once  more  upon  the  road  without  an  aim,  the  wanderer  turned  to 
Augsburg,  simply  as  the  nearest  city,  and — set  up  a Newspaper  ! The 
Deutsche  Chronik  flourished  in  his  hands  ; in  a little  while  it  had  ac- 
quired a decided  character  for  spriglitliness  and  talent  ; in  time  it  be- 
came the  most  widely  circulated  journal  of  the  country.  Schubart  was 
again  a prosperous  man  : his  writings,  stamped  with  the  vigorous  im- 
press of  his  own  genius,  travelled  over  Europe  ; artists  and  men  of  let- 
ters gathered  round  him  ; he  had  money,  he  had  fame  ; the  rich  and 
noble  threw  their  parlours  open  to  him,  and  listened  with  delight  to  his 
overflowing,  many-coloured  conversation.  He  wrote  paragraphs  and 
poetry ; he  taught  music  and  gave  concerts  ; he  set  up  a spouting  estab- 
lishment, recited  newly-published  poems,  read  Klopstock’s  Messias  to 
crowded  and  enraptured  audiences.  Schubart’s  evil  genius  seemed 
asleep,  but  Schubart  himself  awoke  it.  He  had  borne  a grudge  against 
the  clergy,  ever  since  his  banishment  from  Ludwigsburg : and  he  now 
employed  the  facilities  of  his  journal  for  giving  vent  to  it.  He  criticised 
the  priesthood  of  Augsburg  ; speculated  on  their  selfishness  and  cant, 
and  took  every  opportunity  of  turning  them  and  their  proceedings  into 
ridicule.  The  Jesuits  especially,  whom  he  regarded  as  a fallen  body, 
he  treated  with  extreme  freedom  ; exposing  their  deceptions,  and  hold- 
ing up  to  public  contumely  certain  quacks  whom  they  patronised.  The 
Jesuitic  Beast  was  prostrate,  but  not  dead  ; it  had  still  strength  enough 
to  lend  a dangerous  kick  to  any  one  who  came  too  near  it.  One  even- 
ing an  official  person  waited  upon  Schubart,  and  mentioned  an  arrest  by 
virtue  of  a warrant  from  the  Catholic  Biirgermeister  ! Schubart  was 
obliged  to  go  to  prison.  The  heads  of  the  Protestant  party  made  an 
effort  in  his  favour : they  procured  his  liberty,  but  not  without  a stipula- 
tion that  he  should  immediately  depart  from  Augsburg.  Schubart  asked 
to  know  his  crime  ; but  the  Council  answered  him  : “ We  have  our 
reasons  ; let  that  satisfy  you  : ” and  with  this  very  moderate  satisfaction 
he  was  forced  to  leave  their  city. 

But  Schubart  was  now  grown  an  adept  in  banishment  ; so  trifling  an 
event  could  not  unhinge  his  equanimity.  Driven  out  of  Augsburg,  the 
philosophic  editor  sought  refuge  in  Ulm,  where  the  publication  of  his 
journal  had,  for  other  reasons,  already  been  appointed  to  take  place. 


284 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Tlie  Deutsche  Chronilc  was  as  brilliant  here  as  ever  : it  extended  more 
and  more  through  Germany  ; ‘ copies  of  it  even  came  to  London,  Paris, 
Amsterdam,  and  Petersburg.’  Nor  had  its  author's  fortune  altered 
much  ; he  had  still  the  same  employments,-  and  remunerations,  and 
extravagances  ; the  same  sort  of  friends,  the  same  sort  of  enemies.  The 
latter  were  a little  busier  than  formerly  : they  propagated  scandals  ; en- 
graved caricatures,  indited  lampoons  against  him  ; but  this  he  thought 
a very  small  matter.  A man  that  has  been  three  or  four  times  banished, 
and  as  often  put  in  prison,  and  for  many  years  on  the  point  of  starving, 
will  not  trouble  himself  much  about  a gross  or  two  of  pasquinades. 
Schubart  had  his  wife  and  family  again  beside  him,  he  had  money  also 
to  support  them  ; so  he  sang  and  fiddled,  talked  and  wrote,  and  ‘ built 
the  lofty  rhyme,’  and  cared  no  fig  for  any  one. 

But  enemies,  more  fell  than  these,  were  lurking  for  the  thoughtless 
Man  of  Paragraphs.  The  Jesuits  had  still  their  feline  .eyes  upon  him, 
and  longed  to  have  their  talons  in  his  flesh.  They  found  a certain. 
General  Ried,  who  joined  them  on  a quarrel  of  his  own.  This  General 
Ried,  the  Austrian  Agent  at  Ulm,  had  vowed  inexpiable  hatred  against 
Schubart,  it  would  seem,  for  a very  slight  cause  indeed:  once  Schubart 
had  engaged  to  play  before  him,  and  then  finding  that  the  harpsichord 
was  out  of  order,  had  refused,  flatly  refused  ! The  General’s  elevated 
spirit  called  for  vengeance  on  this  impudent  plebeian  ; the  Jesuits  en- 
couraged him  ; and  thus  all  lay  in  eager  watch.  An  opportunity  ere 
long  occurred.  One  week  in  1778,  there  appeared  in  Schubart's  news- 
paper an  Extract  of  a Letter  from  Vienna,  stating  that  ‘ the  Empress 
Maria  Theresa  had  been  struck  by  apoplexy.’  On  reading  which,  the 
General  made  instant  application  to  his  Ducal  Highness,  requesting  that 
the  publisher  of  this  ‘ atrocious  libel  ’ should  be  given  up  to  him,  and 
‘sent  to  expiate  his  crime  in  Hungary,’ by  imprisonment — for  life. 
The  Duke  desired  his  gallant  friend  to  be  at  ease,  for  that  lie  had  long 
had  his  own  eye  on  this  man,  and  would  himself  take  charge  of  him. 

( Accordingly,  a few  days  afterwards,  Herr  von  Scholl,  Comptroller  of  the 
Convent  of  Blaubeuren,  came  to  Schubart  with  a multitude  of  com- 
pliments, inviting  him  to  dinner,  “ as  there  was  a stranger  wishing  to 
be  introduced  to  him.”  Schubart  sprang  into  the  Schlittcn  with  this 
wolf  in  sheep’s  clothing,  and  away  they  drove  to  Blaubeuren.  Arrived 
here,  the  honourable  Herr  von  Scholl  left  him  in  a private  room,  and 
soon  retrirned  with  a posse  of  official  Majors  and  Amtmen,  the  chief  of 
whom  advanced  to  Schubart,  and  declared  him — an  arrested  man ! 
The  hapless  Schubart  thought  it  w-as  a jest ; but  alas  here  was  no  jesting ! 
Schubart  then  said  with  a composure  scarcely  to  be  looked  for,  that 
“ he  hoped  the  Duke  would  not  condemn  him  unheard.”  In  this  too 
he  was  deceived.;  the  men  of  office  made  him  mount  a carriage  with 
them,  and  set  off  without  delay  for  Hohenasperg.  The  Duke  himself 
was  there  with  his  Duchess,  when  these  bloodhounds  and  their  prey  ar- 


APPENDIX. 


2S5 


rived  : the  princely  couple  gazed  from  a window  as  the  group  went  past 
them,  and  a fellow-creature  took  his  farewell  look  of  sun  and  sky  ! 

If  hitherto  the  follies  of  this  man  have  cast  an  air  of  farce  upon  his 
sufferings,  even  when  in  part  unmerited,  such  sentiments  must  now  give 
place  to  that  of  indignation  at  his  cruel  and  cold-blooded  persecutors. 
Schuhart,  who  never  had  the  heart  to  hurt  a fly,  and  with  all  his  indis- 
cretions, had  been  no  man’s  enemy  but  his  own,  was  conducted  to  a . 
narrow  subterraneous  dungeon,  and  left,  without  book  or  pen,  or  any 
sort  of  occupation  or  society,  to  chew  the  cud  of  bitter  thought,  and 
count  the  leaden  months  as  they  passed  over  him,  and  brought  no  miti- 
gation of  his  misery.  His  Serene  Transparency  of  Wurtemberg,  nay 
the  heroic  General  himself,  might  have-  been  satisfied,  could  they  have 
seen  him  : physical  squalor,  combined  with  moral  agony,  were  at  work 
on  Schuhart  ; at  the  end  of  a year,  he  was  grown  so  weak,  that  he  could 
not  stand  except  by  leaning  on  the  walls  of  his  cell.  A little  while, 
and  he  bade  fair  to  get  beyond  the  reach  of  all  his  tyrants.  This,  how- 
ever, was  not  what  they  wanted.  The  prisoner  was  removed  to  a whole- 
some upper  room  ; allowed  the  use  of  certain  books,  the  sight  of  certain 
company,  and  had,  at  least,  the  privilege  to  think  and  breathe  without 
obstruction.  He  was  farther  gratified  by  hearing  that  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren had  been  treated  kindly  : the  boys  had  been  admitted  to  the  Stntt- 
gard  school,  .where  Schiller  was  now  studying ; to  their  mother  there 
had  been  assigned  a pension"  of  two  hundred  gulden.  Charles  of  Wur- 
temberg was  undoubtedly  a weak  and  heartless  man,  but  we  know  not 
that  he  was  a savage  one  : in  the  punishment  of  Schuhart.  it  is  possible 
enough  that  he  believed  himself  to  be  discharging  an  important  duty  to 
the  world.  The  only  subject  of  regret  is,  that  any  duty  to  the  world, 
beyond  the  duty  of  existing  inoffensively,  should  be  committed  to  such 
hands  ; that  men  like  Charles  and  Eied,  endowed  with  so  very  small  a 
fraction  of  the  common  faculties  of  manhood,  should  have  the  destiny 
of  any  living  thing  at  their  control. 

Another  mitigating  circumstance  in  Scliubart’s  lot  was  the  character 
of  his  gaoler.  This  humane  person  had  himself  tasted  the  tender  mer- 
cies of  ‘ paternal  ’ government ; he  knew  the  nature  of  a dungeon  better 
even  than  his  prisoner.  ‘For  four  years,’ we  are  told,  'he  had  seen 
no  human  face  ; his  scanty  food  had  been  lowered  to  him  through  a 
trap-door  ; neither  chair  nor  table  were  allowed  him,  his  cell  was  never 
swept,  his  beard  and  nails  were  left  to  grow,  the  humblest  conven- 
iences of  civilised  humanity  were  denied  him  ! ’ 1 On  this  man  affliction 
had  produced  its  softening,  not  its  hardening  influence. : he  had  grown 
religious,  and  merciful  in  heart ; he  studied  to  alleviate  Sclmbart's  hard 

1 And  yet  Mr.  Fox  is  reported  to  have  said : There  was  one  feee  Government  on 
the  Continent , and  that  one  was — Wdrtembercj.  They  had  a parliament  and  ‘three 
estates’  like  the  English. — So  much  for  paper  Constitutions  ! 


28G 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


fate  by  every  means  within  his  power.  He  spoke  comfortingly  to  him ; 
ministered  to  his  infirmities,  and,  in  spite  of  orders,  lent  him  all  his 
books.  These,  it  is  true,  were  only  treatises  on  theosophy  and  mystical 
devotion  ; but  they  were  the  best  he  had  ; and  to  Schubart,  in  his  first 
lonely  dungeon,  they  afforded  occupation  and  solace. 

Human  nature  will  accommodate  itself  to  anything.  The  King  of 
Toutus  taught  himself  to  eat  poison  : Schubart,  cut  out  from  intemper- 
ance and  jollity,  did  not  pine  away  in  confinement  and  abstemiousness; 
he  had  lost  Voltaire  and  gay  company,  he  found  delight  in  solitude  and 
Jacob  Bohni.  Nature  had  been  too  good  to  him  to  let  his  misery  in 
any  case  be  unalloyed.  The  vague  unguided  ebullience  of  spirit,  which 
had  so  often  set  the  table  in  a roar,  and  made  him  the  most  fascinating 
of  debauchees,  was  now  mellowed  into  a cloudy  enthusiasm,  the  sable 
of  which  was  still  copiously  blended  with  rainbow  colours.  His  brain 
had  received  a slight  though  incurable  crack  ; there  was  a certain  exas- 
peration mixed  with  his  unsettled  fervour  ; but  he  was  not  wretched, 
often  even  not  uncomfortable.  His  religion  was  not  real  ; but  it  had 
reality  enough  for  present  purposes  ; he  was  at  once  a sceptic  and  a 
mystic,  a true  disciple  of  Bdlim  as  well  as  of  Voltaire.  For  afflicted, 
irresolute,  imaginative  men  like  Schubart,  this  is  not  a rare  or  altogether 
ineffectual  resource  : at  the  bottom  of  their  minds  they  doubt  or  disbe- 
lieve, but  their  hearts  exclaim  against  the  slightest  whisper  of  it ; they 
dare  not  look  into  the  fathomless  abyss  of  Infidelity,  so  they  cover  it 
over  with  the  dense  and  strangely-tinted  smoke  of  Theosophy.  Sehu- 
„ hart  henceforth  now  and  then  employed  the  phrases  and  figures  of  re- 
ligion ; but  its  principles  had  made  no  change  in  his  theory  of  human 
duties ; it  was  not  food  to  strengthen  the  weakness  of  his  spirit,  but  an 
opiate  to  stay  its  craving. 

Schubart  had  still  farther  resources : like  other  great  men  in  cap- 
tivity, he  set  about  composing  the  history  of  his  life.  It  is  true,  he  had 
no  pens  or  paper  ; but  this  could  not  deter  him.  A fellow-prisoner,  to 
whom,  as  he  one  day  saw  him  pass  by  the  grating  of  his  window,  he 
had  communicated  his  desire,  entered  eagerly  into  the  scheme  : the  two 
contrived  to  unfasten  a stone  in  a wall  that  divided  their  apartments  ; 
when  the  prison-doors  were  bolted  for  the  night,  this  volunteer  amanu- 
ensis took  his  place,  Schubart  trailed  his  mattress  to  the  friendly  orifice, 
and  there  lay  down,  and  dictated  in  whispers  the  record  of  his  fitful  story. 
These  memoirs  have  been  preserved  ; they  were  published  and  completed 
by  a son  of  Schubart’s : we  have  often  wished  to  see  them,  but  in  vain. 

By  day,  Schubart  had  liberty  to  speak  with  certain  visitors.  One 
of  these,  as  we  have  said  above,  was  Schiller.  That  Schubart,  in  their 
single  interview,  was  pleased  with  the  enthusiastic  friendly  boy,  we 
could  have  conjectured,  and  he  has  himself  informed  us.  ‘ Excepting 
Schiller,’  said  the  veteran  garreteer,  in  writing  afterwards  to  Gleim, 
‘ I scarcely  know  of  any  German  youth  in  whom  the  sacred  spark  of 


APPENDIX. 


287 


genius  lias  mounted  up  within  the  soul  like  flame  upon  the  altar  of  a 
Deity.  We  are  fallen  into  the  shameful  times,  when  women  hear  rule 
over  men  ; and  make  the  toilet  a tribunal  before  which  the  most 
gigantic  minds  must  plead.  Hence  the  stunted  spirit  of  our  poets  ; 
hence  the  dwarf  products  of  their  imagination  ; hence  the  frivolous  wit- 
ticism, the  heartless  sentiment,  crippled  and  ricketed  by  soups,  ragouts 
and  sweetmeats,  which  you  find  in  fashionable  balladmongers.  ’ 

Time  and  hours  wear  out  the  roughest  day.  The  world  began  to 
feel  an  interest  in  Schubart,  and  to  take  some  pity  on  him  : his  songs 
and  poems  were  collected  and  published  ; their  merit  and  their  author’s 
misery  exhibited  a shocking  contrast.  His  Highness  of  Wiirtemberg 
at  length  condescended  to  remember  that  a mortal,  of  wants  and  feelings 
like  his  own,  had  been  forced  by  him  to  spend,  in  sorrow  and  inaction, 
the  third  part  of  an  ordinary  lifetime  ; to  waste,  and  worse  than  waste, 
ten  years  of  precious  time  ; time,  of  which  not  all  the  dukes  and  princes 
in  the  universe  could  give  him  back  one  instant.  He  commanded  Schu- 
bart to  be  liberated  ; and  the  rejoicing  Editor  (unacquitted,  unjudged, 
unaccused  !)  once  more  beheld  the  blue  zenith  and  the  full  ring  of  the 
horizon.  He  joined  his  wife  at  Stuttgard,  and  recommenced  his  news- 
paper. The  Deutsche  Chronik  was  again  popular  ; the  notoriety  of  its 
conductor  made  amends  for  the  decay  which  critics  did  not  fail  to  notice 
in  his  faculties.  Schubart’ s sufferings  had  in  fact  permanently  injured 
him  ; his  mind  was  warped  and  weakened  by  theosophy  and  solitude  ; 
bleak  northern  vapours  often  flitted  over  it,  and  chilled  its  tropical 
luxuriance.  Yet  he  wrote  and  rhymed  ; discoursed  on  the  corruption 
of  the  times,  and  on  the  means  of  their  improvement.  He  published 
the  first  portion  of  his  Life,  and  often  talked  amazingly  about  the  Wan- 
dering Jew,  and  a romance  of  which  he  was  to  form  the  subject.  The 
idea  of  making  old  Joannes  a temporibus,  the  ‘ Wandering,’  or  as  Schu- 
bart's  countrymen  denominate  him,  the  ‘ Eternal  Jew,’  into  a novel 
hero,  was  a mighty  favourite  with  him.  In  this  antique  cordwainer, 
as  on  a raft  at  anchor  in  the  stream  of  time,  he  would  survey  the 
changes  and  wonders  of  two  thousand  years  : the  Roman  and  the  Arab 
were  to  figure  there  ; the  Crusader  and  the  Circumnavigator,  the  Ere- 
mite of  the  Thebaid  and  the  Pope  of  Rome.  Joannes  himself,  the  Man 
existing  out  of  Time  and  Space,  Joannes  the  unresting  and  undying, 
was  to  be  a deeply  tragic  personage.  Schubart  warmed  himself  with 
this  idea  ; and  talked  about  it  in  his  cups,  to  the  astonishment  of  simple 
souls.  He  even  wrote  a certain  rhapsody  connected  with  it,  which  is 
published  in  his  poems.  But  here  he  rested ; and  the  project  of  the 
Wandering  Jew,  which  Goethe  likewise  meditated  in  his  youth,  is  still  un- 
executed. Goethe  turned  to  other  objects  : and  poor  Schubart  was  sur- 
prised by  death,  in  the  midst  of  his  schemes,  on  the  10th  of  October  1791. 

Of  Schubart' s character  as  a man,  this  record  of  his  life  leaves  but  a 


2S8 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


mean  impression.  Unstable  in  bis  goings,  without  principle  or  plan,  he 
flickered,  through  existence  like  an  ignis-fatuus ; now  shooting  into 
momentary  gleams  of  happiness  and  generosity,  now  quenched  in  the 
mephitic  marshes  over  which  his  zig-zag  path  conducted  him.  He  had 
many  amiable  qualities,  but  scarcely  any  moral  worth.  From  first  to 
last  liis  circumstances  were  against  him  ; his  education  was  unfortunate, 
its  fluctuating  aimless  wanderings  enhanced  its  ill  effects.  The  thrall 
of  the  passing  moment,  lie  had  no  will ; the  fine  endowments  of  his 
heart  were  left  to  riot  in  chaotic  turbulence,  and  their  forces  cancelled 
one  another.  With  better  models  and  advisers,  with  more  rigid  habits, 
and  a happier  fortune,  he  might  have  been  an  admirable  man:  as  it  is, 
he  is  far  from  'admirable. 

The  same  defects  have  told  with  equal  influence  on  his  character  as 
a writer.  Sckubart  had  a quick  sense  of  the  beautiful,  the  moving,  and 
the  true  ; his  nature  was  susceptible  and  fervid  ; he  had  a keen  intellect, 
a fiery  imagination  ; and  his  ‘ iron  memory  ’ secured  forever  the  various 
produce  of  so  many  gifts.  But  he  had  no  diligence,  no  power  of  self- 
denial.  His  knowledge  lay  around  him  like  the  plunder  of  a sacked 
city.  Like  this  too,  it  was  squandered  in  pursuit  of  casual  objects.  He 
wrote  in  gusts  ; the  labor  lima,  et  mora  was  a thing  he  did  not  know. 
Yet  his  writings  have  great  merit.  His  newspaper  essays  abound  in 
happy  illustrations  and  brilliant  careless  thought.  His  songs,  excluding 
those  of  a devotional  and  theosophic  cast,  are  often  full  of  nature, 
heartiness  and  true  simplicity.  ‘From  his  youth  upwards,’  we  are  told, 

‘ he  studied  the  true  Old-German  Volkslied;  he  watched  the  artisan  on 
the  street,  the  craftsman  in  his  workshop,  the  soldier  in  his  guardhouse, 
the  maid  by  the  spinning-wheel ; and  transferred  the  genuine  spirit  of 
primeval  Germanism,  which  he  found  in  them,  to  his  own  songs.’ 
Hence  their  popularity,  which  many  of  them  still  retain.  ‘In  his  larger 
tyrieal  pieces,’ observes  the  same  not  injudicious  critic,  ‘we  discover 
fearless  singularity  ; wild  imagination,  dwelling  rather  on  the  grand 
and  frightful  than  on  the  beautiful  and  soft ; deep,  but  seldom  long- 
continued  feeling ; at  times  far-darting  thoughts,  original  images, 
stormy  vehemence  ; and  generally  a glowing,  self-created,  figurative 
diction.  He  never  wrote  to  show  his  art ; but  poured  forth,  from  the 
inward  call  of  his  nature,  the  thought  or  feeling  which  happened  for 
the  hour  to  have  dominion  in  him.’ 1 

Such  were  Schubart  and  his  works  and  fortunes  ; the  disjecta  mem- 
bra of  a richly-gifted  but  ill-starred  and  infatuated  poet ! The  image 
of  his  persecutions  added  speed  to  Schiller’s  flight  from  Stuttgard  ; may 
the  image  of  his  wasted  talents  and  ineffectual  life  add  strength  to  our 
resolves  of  living  otherwise  ! 

1 Jordens  Lexicon  : from  which  most  part  of  the  above  details  are  taken. — There  ex- 
ists now  a decidedly  compact,  intelligent  and  intelligible  Life  of  SoJiubart.  done,  iu  thrc/ 
little  volumes,  by  Strauss,  some  years  ago.  (Note  of  1857.) 


APPENDIX. 


289 


No.  2.  Page  32. 

LETTERS  OF  SCHILLER. 

A few  Extracts  from  Schiller’s  correspondence  may  be  gratifying 
to  some  readers.  The  Letters  to  Dalberg,  which  constitute  the  chief  part 
of  it  as  yet  before  the  public,  are  on  the  whole  less  interesting  than 
might  have  been  expected,  if  we  did  not  recollect  that  the  writer  of 
them  was  still  an  inexperienced  youth,  overawed  by  his  idea  of  Dalberg, 
to  whom  he  could  communicate  with  freedom  only  on  a single  topic; 
and  besides  oppressed  with  grievances,  which  of  themselves  would  have 
weighed  down  his  spirit,  and  prevented  any  frank  or  cordial  exposition 
of  its  feelings. 

Of  the  Reichsfreiherr  von  Dalberg  himself,  this  correspondence  gives 
ns  little  information,  and  we  have  gleaned  little  elsewhere.  He  is  men- 
tioned incidentally  in  almost  every  literary  history  connected  with  his 
time  ; and  generally  as  a mild  gentlemanly  person,  a judicious  critic, 
and  a warm  lover  of  the  arts  and  their  cultivators.  The  following  no- 
tice of  his  death  is  extracted  from  the  Conversations- Lexicon,  Part  III. 
p.  12  : ' Died  at  Mannheim,  on  the  27th  of  December  1806,  in  his  85th 
year,  Wolfgang  Heribert,  Reichsfreiherr  von  Dalberg;  knighted  by  the 
Emperor  Leopold  on  his  coronation  at  Frankfort.  A warm  friend  and 
patron  of  the  arts  and  sciences  ; while  the  German  Society  flourished  at 
Mannheim,  he  was  its  first  President  ; and  the  theatre  of  that  town,  the 
school  of  the  best  actors  in  Germany,  of  Iffland,  Beck,  Beil,  and  many 
others,  owes  to  him  its  foundation,  and  its  maintenance  throughout  his 
long  Intendancy,  which  he  held  till  1803.  As  a writer  and  a poet,  he  is 
no  less  favourably  known.  We  need  only  refer  to  his  Cora,  a musical 
drama,  and  to  the  Monch  von  Carmel.’’ — These  letters  of  Schiller  were 
found  among  his  papers  at  his  death  ; rescued  from  destruction  by  two 
of  his  executors,  and  published  at  Carlsruhe,  in  a small  duodecimo,  in 
the  year  1819.  There  is  a verbose  preface,  but  no  note  or  comment, 
though  some  such  aid  is  now  and  then  a little  wanted. 

The  letters  most  worthy  of  our  notice  are  those  relating  to  the  ex- 
hibition of  the  Robbers  on  the  Mannheim  stage,  and  to  Schiller’s  conse- 
quent embarrassments  and  flight.  From  these,  accordingly,  the  most 
of  our  selections  shall  be  taken.  It  is  curious  to  see  with  what  timidity 
the  intercourse  on  Schiller’s  part  commences  ; and  how  this  awkward 
shyness  gradually  gives  place’to  some  degree  of  confidence,  as  he  be- 
comes acquainted  with  his  patron,  or  is  called  to  treat  of  subjects  where 
he  feels  that  he  himself  has  a dignity,  and  rights  of  his  own,  forlorn  and 
humble  as  he  is.  At  first  he  never  mentions  Dalberg  but  with  all  his 
titles,  some  of  which  to  our  unceremonious  ears  seem  ludicrous  enough. 

19 


230 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


Thus  in  the  full  style  of  German  reverence,  he  avoids  directly  naming 
his  correspondent,  but  uses  the  oblique  designation  of  ‘ your  Excel- 
lency,’ or  something  equally  exalted  : and  he  begins  his  two  earliest 
letters  with  an  address,  which,  literally  interpreted,  runs  thus : ‘ Em- 
pire-free, Higlily-wellborn,  Particularly-much-to-be-venerated,  Lord 
Privy  Counsellor  ! ’ Such  sounding  phrases  make  us  smile  : but  they 
entirely  depend  on  custom  for  their  import,  and  the  smile  which  they 
excite  is  not  by  any  means  a philosophic  one.  It  is  but  fair  that  in  our 
version  we  omit  them,  or  render  them  by  some  more  grave  equivalent. 


The  first  letter  is  as  follows : 

[Xo  date.] 

‘ The  proud  judgment,  passed  upon  me  in  the  flattering  letter  which 
I had  the  honour  to  receive  from  your  Excellency,  is  enough  to  set  the 
prudence  of  an  Author  on  a very  slippery  eminence.  The  authority 
of  the  quarter  it  proceeds  from,  would  almost  communicate  to  that  sen- 
tence the  stamp  of  infallibility,  if  I could  regard  it  as  anything  but  a 
mere  encouragement  of  my  Muse.  More  than  this  a deep  feeling  of  my 
weakness  will  not  let  me  think  it ; but  if  my  strength  shall  ever  climb 
to  the  height  of  a masterpiece,  I certainly  shall  have  this  warm  ap- 
proval of  your  Excellency  alone  to  thank  for  it,  and  so  will  the  world. 
For  several  years  I have  had  the  happiness  to  know  you  from  the  pub- 
lic papers  : long  ago  the  splendour  of  the  Mannheim  theatre  attracted 
my  attention.  And,  I confess,  ever  since  I felt  any  touch  of  dramatic 
talent  in  myself,  it  has  been  among  my  darling  projects  some  time 
or  other  to  remove  to  Mannheim,  the  true  temple  of  Thalia  ; a proj- 
ect, however,  which  my  closer  connection  with  Wiirtemberg  might  pos- 
sibly impede. 

‘ Your  Excellency’s  very  kind  proposal  on  the  subject  of  the  Robbers, 
and  such  other  pieces  as  I may  produce  in  future,  is  infinitely  precious 
to  me  ; the  maturing  of  it  well  deserves  a narrower  investigation  of 
your  Excellency’s  theatre,  its  special  mode  of  management,  its  actors, 
the  non  plus  ultra  of  its  machinery  ; in  a word,  a full  conception  of  it, 
such  as  I shall  never  get  while  my  only  scale  of  estimation  is  this 
Stuttgard  theatre  of  ours,  an  establishment  still  in  its  minority.  Un- 
happily my  economical  circumstances  render  it  impossible  for  me  to 
travel  much  ; though  I could  travel  now  with  the  greater  happiness 
and  confidence,  as  I have  still  some  pregnant  ideas  for  the  Mannheim 
theatre,  which -I  could  wish  to  have  the  honour  of  communicating  to 
your  Excellency.  For  the  rest,  I remain,’  &e. 

From  the  second  letter  we  learn  that  Schiller  had  engaged  to  thea- 
trilise  his  original  edition  of  the  Robbers,  and  still  wished  much  to  be 
connected  in  some  shape  with  Mannheim.  The  third  explains  itself: 


APPENDIX. 


291 


‘ Stuttgarcl,  Cth  October  17S1. 

1 Here  then  at  last  returns  the  luckless  prodigal,  the  remodelled 
Robbers!  I am  sorry  that  I have  not  kept  the  time,  appointed  by  my- 
self ; but  a transitory  glance  at  the  number  and  extent  of  the  changes 
I have  made,  will,  I trust,  he  sufficient  to  excuse  me.  Add  to  this,  that 
a contagious  epidemic  was  at  work  in  our  military  Hospital,  which,  of 
course,  interfered  very  often  with  my  otia  poetica.  After  finishing  my 
work,  I may  assure  you  I could  engage  with  less  effort  of  mind,  and 
certainly  with  far  more  contentment,  to  compose  a new  piece,  than  to 
undergo  the  labour  I have  just  concluded.  The  task  was  complicated 
and  tedious.  Here  I had  to  correct  an  error,  which  naturally  was 
rooted  in  the  very  groundwork  of  the  play  ; there  perhaps  to  sacrifice  a 
beauty  to  the  limits  of  the  stage,  the  humour  of  the  pit,  the  stupidity 
of  the  gallery,  or  some  such  sorrowful  convention  ; and  I need  not  tell 
you,  that  as  in  nature,  so  on  the  stage,  an  idea,  an  emotion,  can  have 
only  one  suitable  expression,  one  proper  tone.  A single  alteration  in  a 
trait  of  character  may  give  a new  tendency  to  the  whole  personage,  and, 
consequently,  to  his  actions,  and  the  mechanism  of  the  piece  which  de- 
pends on  them. 

‘ In  the  original,  the  Robbers  are  exhibited  in  strong  contrast  with 
each  other ; and  I dare  maintain  that  it  is  difficult  to  draw  half  a dozen 
robbers  in  strong  contrast,  without  in  some  of  them  offending  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  stage.  In  my  first  conception  of  the  piece,  I excluded  the 
idea  of  its  ever  being  represented  in  a theatre  ; hence  came  it  that 
Franz  was  planned  as  a reasoning  villain  ; a plan  which,  though  it  may 
content  the  thinking  Reader,  cannot  fail  to  vex  and  weary  the  Spec- 
tator, who  does  not  come  to  think,  and  who  wants  not  philosophy,  hut 
action. 

1 In  the  new  edition,  I could  not  overturn  this  arrangement  without 
breaking  down  the  whole  economy  of  the  piece.  Accordingly  I can 
predict,  with  tolerable  certainty,  that  Franz  when  he  appears  on  the 
stage,  will  not  play  the  part  which  he  has  played  with  the  reader. 
And,  at  all  events,  the  rushing  stream  of  the  action  will  hurry  the 
spectator  over  all  the  finer  shadings,  and  rob  him  of  a third  part  of  the 
whole  character. 

‘ Karl  von  Moor  might  chance  to  form  an  era  on  the  stage  ; except 
a few  speculations,  which,  however,  work  as  indispensable  colours  in 
the  general  picture,  he  is  all  action,  all  visible  life.  Spiegelberg, 
Schweitzer,  Hermann,  are,  in  the  strictest  -sense,  personages  for  the 
stage  ; in  a less  degree,  Amelia  and  the  Father. 

1 Written  and  oral  criticisms  I have  endeavoured  to  turn  to  advan- 
tage. The  alterations  are  important ; certain  scenes  are  altogether  new. 
Of  this  number,  are  Hermann’s  counter-plots  to  undermine  the  schemes 
of  Franz  ; his  interview  with  that  personage,  which,  in  the  first  com- 
position of  the  work,  was  entirely  and  very  unhappily  forgotten.  His 


292 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


interview  with  Amelia  in  the  garden  has  been  postponed  to  the  suc- 
ceeding act ; and  my  friends  tell  me  that  I could  have  fixed  upon  no 
better  act  than  this,  no  better  time  than  a few  moments  prior  to  the 
meeting  of  Amelia  with  Moor.  Franz  is  brought  a little  nearer  human 
nature  ; but  the  mode  of  it  is  rather  strange.  A scene  like  his  con- 
demnation in  the  fifth  act  has  never,  to  my  knowledge,  been  exhibited 
on  any  stage  ; and  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  scene  where  Amelia,  is 
sacrificed  by  her  lover. 

‘ If  the  piece  should  be  too  long,  it  stands  at  the  discretion  of  the 
manager  to  abbreviate  the  speculative  parts  of  it,  or  here  and  there, 
without  prejudice  to  . the  general  impression,  to  omit  them  altogether. 
But  in  the  printing,  I use  the  freedom  humbly  to  protest  against  the 
leaving  out  of  anything.  I had  satisfactory  reasons  of  my  own  for  all 
that  I allowed  to  pass  ; and  my  submission  to  the  stage  does  not  extend 
so  far,  that  I can  leave  holes  in  my  work,  and  mutilate  the  characters  of 
men  for  the  convenience  of  actors. 

‘In  regard  to  the  selection  of  costume,  without  wishing  to  prescribe 
any  rules,  I may  be  permitted  to  remark,  that  though  in  nature  dress 
is  unimportant,  on  the  stage  it  is  never  so.  In  this  particular,  the  taste 
of  my  Robber  Moor  will  not  be  difficult  to  hit.  He  wears  a plume  ; for 
this  is  mentioned  expressly  in  the  play,  at  the  time  when  he  abdicates 
his  office.  I have  also  given  him  a baton.  His  dress  should  always  be 
noble  without  ornament,  unstudied  but  not  negligent. 

‘ A young  but  excellent  composer  is  working  at  a sjunphony  for  my 
unhappy  prodigal : I know  it  will  be  masterly.  So  soon  as  it  is 
finished,  I shall  take  the  liberty  of  offering  it  to  you. 

‘ I must  also  beg  you  to  excuse  the  irregular  state  of  the  manuscript, 
the  incorrectness  of  the  penmanship.  I was  in  haste  to  get  the  piece 
ready  for  you  ; hence  the  double  sort  of  handwriting  in  it ; hence  also 
my  forbearing  to  correct  it.  My  copyist,  according  to  the  custom  of 
all  reforming  caligrapliers,  I find,  has  wofully  abused  the  spelling.  To 
conclude,  I recommend  myself  and  my  endeavours  to  the  kindness  of 
an  honoured  judge.  I am,’  &c. 


4 Stuttgard,  12th  December  178h 

1 With  the  change  projected  by  your  Excellency,  in  regard  to  the 
publishing  of  my  play,  I feel  entirely  contented,  especially  as  I per- 
ceive that  by  this  means  two  interests  that  had  become  very  alien,  are 
again  made  one,  without,  as  I hope,  any  prejudice  to  the  results  and 
the  success  of  my  work.  Your  Excellency,  however,  touches  on  some 
other  very  weighty  changes,  which  the  piece  has  undergone  from  your 
hands  ; and  these,  in  respect  of  myself,  I feel  to  be  so  important,  that  I 
shall  beg  to  explain  my  mind  at  some  length  regarding  them.  At  the 
outset,  then,  I must  honestly  confess  to  you,  I hold  the  projected  trans- 
ference of  the  action  represented  in  my  play  to  the  epoch  of  the  Land- 


APPENDIX. 


293 


fried , and  tlie  Suppression  of  Private  Wars,  with  the  whole  accompani- 
ment which  it  gains  by  this  new  position,  as  infinitely  better  than 
mine  ; and  must  hold  it  so,  although  the  whole  piece  should  go  to  ruin 
thereby.  Doubtless  it  is  an  objection,  that  in  our  enlightened  century, 
with  our  watchful  police  and  fixedness  of  statute,  such  a reckless  gang 
should  have  arisen  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  laws,  and  still  more,  have 
taken  root  and  subsisted  for  years:  doubtless  the  objection  is  well 
founded,  and  I have  nothing  to  allege  against  it,  but  the  license  of 
Poetry  to  raise  the  probabilities  of  the  real  world  to  the  rank  of  true, 
and  its  possibilities  to  the  rank  of  probable. 

‘ This  excuse,  it  must  be  owned,  is  little  adequate  to  the  objection  it 
opposes.  But  when  I grant  your  Excellenc^so  much  (and  I grant  it 
honestly,  and  with  complete  conviction),  what  will  follow  ? Simply 
that  my  play  has  got  an  ugly  fault  at  its  birth,  which  fault,  if  I may 
say  so,  it  must  carry  with  it  to  its  grave,  the  fault  being  interwoven  with 
its  very  nature,  and  not  to  be  removed  without  destruction  of  the  whole. 

‘ Iu  the  first  place,  all  my  personages  speak  in  a style  too  modern, 
too  enlightened  for  that  ancient  time.  The  dialect  is  not  the  right  one. 
That  simplicity  so  vividly  presented  to  us  by  the  author  of  Gotz  ton 
Berlichingen,  is  altogether  wanting.  Many  long  tirades,  touches  great 
and  small,  nay  entire  characters,  are  taken  from  the  aspect  of  the  pres- 
ent world,  and  would  not  answer  for  the  age  of  Maximilian:  In  a 

word,  this  change  would  reduce  the  piece  into  something  like  a cer- 
tain woodcut  which  I remember  meeting  with  in  an  edition  of  Virgil. 
The  Trojans  wore  hussar  boots,  and  King  Agamemnon  had  a pair  of 
pistols  in  his  belt.  I should  commit  a crime  against  the  age  of  Maxi- 
milian, to  avoid  an  error  against  the  age  of  Frederick  the  Second. 

‘ Again,  my  whole  episode  of  Amelia’s  love  would  make  a frightful 
contrast  with  the  simple  chivalry  attachment  of  that  period.  Amelia 
would,  at  all  hazards,  need  to  be  re-moulded  into  a chivalry  maiden  ; 
and  I need  not  tell  you  that  this  character,  aud  the  sort  of  love  which 
reigns  in  my  work,  are  so  deeply  and  broadly  tinted  into  the  whole 
picture  of  the  Bobber  Moor,  nay,  into  the  whole  piece,  that  every  part 
of  the  delineation  would  require  to  be  re-painted,  before  those  tints 
could  be  removed.  So  likewise  is  it  with  the  character  of  Franz,  that 
speculative,  metaphysico-refining  knave. 

‘ In  a word,  I think  I may  affirm,  that  this  projected  transposition  of 
my  work,  which,  prior  to  the  commencement,  would  have  lent  it  the 
highest  splendour  and  completeness,  could  not  fail  now,  when  the  piece 
is  planned  and  finished,  to  change  it  into  a defective  quocllibet,  a crow 
with  peacock’s  feathers. 

‘ Your  Excellency  will  forgive  a father  this  earnest  pleading  in  behalf 
of  his  son.  These  are  but  words,  and  in  the  long-run  every  theatre  can 
make  of  any  piece  what  they  think  proper  ; the  author  must  content 
himself.  In  the  present  case,  he  looks  upon  it  as  a happiness  that  he  has 


294 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


fallen  into  such  hands.  With  Herr  Schwann,  however,  I will  make  it  a 
condition  that,  at  least,  he  print  the  piece  according  to  the  first  plan. 
In  the  theatre  I pretend  to  no  vote  whatever. 

‘ That  other  change  relating  to  Amelia’s  death  was  perhaps  even  more 
interesting  to  me.  Believe  me,  your  Excellency,  this  was  the  portion 
of  my  play  which  cost  me  the  greatest  effort  and  deliberation,  of  all 
which  the  result  was  nothing  else  than  this,  that  Moor  must  kill  his 
Amelia,  and  that  the  action  is  even  a positive  beauty,  in  his  character  ; 
on  the  one  hand  painting  the  ardent  lover,  on  the  other  the  Bandit 
Captain,  with  the  liveliest  colours.  But  the  vindication  of  this  part  is 
not  to  be  exhausted  in  a single  letter.  For  the  rest,  the  few  words 
which  you  propose  to  sifbstitute  in  place  of  this  scene,  are  truty  ex- 
quisite, and  altogether  worthy  of  the  situation.  I should  be  proud  of 
having  written  them. 

‘ As  Herr  Schwann  informs  me  that  the  piece,  with  the  music  and  in- 
dispensably necessary  pauses,  will  last  about  five  hours  (too  long  for 
any  piece!),  a second  curtailment  of  it  will  be  called  for.  I should 
not  wish  that  any  but  myself  undertook  this  task,  and  I myself,  without 
the  sight  of  a rehearsal,  or  of  the  first  representation,  cannot  undertake  it. 

‘ If  it  were  possible  that  your  Excellency  could  fix  the  general  re- 
hearsal of  the  piece  some  time  between  the  twentieth  and  the  thirtieth 
of  this  month,  and  make  good  to  me  the  main  expenses  of  a journey  to 
you,  I should  hope,  in  some  few  days,  I might  unite  the  interest  of  the 
stage  with  my  own,  and  give  the  piece  that  proper  rounding-off,  which, 
without  an  actual  view  of  the  representation,  cannot  well  be  given  it. 
On  this  point,  may  I request  the  favour  of  your  Excellency's  decision 
soon,  that  I may  be  prepared  for  the  event  ? 

1 Herr  Schwann  writes  me  that  a Baron  von  Gemmingen  has  given 
hi  mself  the  trouble  and  done  me  the  honour  to  read  my  piece.  This 
Herr  von  Gemmingen,  I also  hear,  is  author  of  the  Deutsche  Hausmter. 
I long  to  have  the  honour  of  assuring  him  that  I liked  his  Hausmter 
uncommonly,  and  admired  in  it  the  traces  of  a most  accomplished  man 
and  writer.  But  what  does  the  author  of  the  Deutsche  Hausmter  care 
about  the  babble  of  a young  apprentice  ? If  I should  ever  have  the 
honour  of  meeting  Dalberg  at  Mannheim,  and  testifying  the  affection 
and  reverence  I bear  him,  I will  then  also  press  into  the  arms  of  that 
other,  and  tell  him  how  dear  to  me  such  souls  are  as  Dalberg  and 
Gemmingen. 

‘ Your  thought  about  the  small  Advertisement,  before  our  production 
of  the  piece,  I exceedingly  approve  of ; along  with  this  I have  enclosed 
a sketch  of  one.  ’ For  the  rest,  I have  the  honour,  with  perfect  respect, 
to  be  always,’  &c. 

This  is  the  enclosed  scheme  of  an  Advertisement ; which  was  after- 
wards adopted. 


APPENDIX. 


295 


‘THE  ROBBERS, 

‘ A PLAT. 

‘ The  picture  of  a great,  misguided  soul,  furnished  with  every  gift  for 
excellence,  and  lost  in  spite  of  all  its  gifts  : unchecked  ardour  and  had 
companionship  contaminate  his  heart  ; hnrry  him  from  vice  to  vice,  till 
at  last  he  stands  at  the  head  of  a gang  of  murderers,  heaps  horror  upon 
horror,  plunges  from  abyss  to  abyss  into  all  the  depths  of  desperation. 
Great  and  majestic  in  misfortune ; and  by  misfortune  improved,  led 
back  to  virtue.  Such  a man  in  the  Robber  Moor  you  shall  bewail  and 
hate,  abhor  and  love.  A hypocritical,  malicious  deceiver,  you  shall 
likewise  see  unmasked,  and  blown  to  pieces  in  his  own  mines.  A 
feeble,  fond,  and  too  indulgent  father.  The  sorrows  of  enthusiastic 
love,  and  the  torture  of  ungoverned  passion.  Here  also,  not  without 
abhorrence,  you  shall  cast  a look  into  the  interior  economy  of  vice, 
and  from  the  stage  be  taught  how  all  the  gilding  of  fortune  cannot  kill 
the  inward  worm  ; how  terror,  anguish,  remorse,  and  despair  follow 
close  upon  the  heels  of  the  wicked.  Let  the  spectator  weep  today  be- 
fore our  scene,  and  shudder,  and  learn  to  bend  his  passions  under  the 
laws  of  reason  and  religion.  Let  the  youth  behold  with  affright  the 
end  of  unbridled  extravagance  ; nor  let  the  man  depart  from  our 
theatre  without  a feeling  that  Providence  makes  even  villains  instru- 
ments of  His  purposes  and  judgments,  and  can  marvellously  unravel 
the  most  intricate  perplexities  of  fate.’ 

Whatever  reverence  Schiller  entertained  for  Dalberg  as  a critic  and  a 
patron,  and  however  ready  to  adopt  his  alterations  when  they  seemed 
judicious,  it  is  plain,  from  various  passages  of  these  extracts,  that  in  re- 
gard to  writing,  he  had  also  firm  persuasions  of  his  own,  and  conscien- 
tiousness enough  to  adhere  to  them  while  they  continued  such.  In  re- 
gard to  the  conducting  of  his  life,  his  views  as  yet  were  far  less  clear. 
The  following  fragments  serve  to  trace  him  from  the  first  exhibition  of 
his  play  at  Mannheim  to  his  flight  from  Stuttgard  : 

‘ Stuttgard,  l?th  January  17S2. 

‘ I here  in  writing  repeat  my  warmest  thanks  for  the  courtesies  re- 
ceived from  your  Excellency,  for  your  attention  to  my  slender  efforts, 
for  the  dignity  and  splendour  you  bestowed  upon  my  piece,  for  all 
your  Excellency  did  to  exalt  its  little  merits  and  hide  its  weaknesses  by 
the  greatest  outlay  of  theatric  art.  The  shortness  of  my  stay  at  Mann- 
heim would  not  allow  me  to  go  into  details  respecting  the  play  or  its 
representation  ; and  as  I could  not  say  all,  my  time  being  meted  out  to 
me  so  sparingly,  I thought  it  better  to  say  absolutely  nothing.  I ob- 
served much,  I learned  much  ; and  I believe,  if  Germany  shall  ever 


290 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


find  in  nae  a true  dramatic  poet,  I must  reckon  tlie  date  of  my  commence- 
ment from  the  past  week.  ’ * * 


‘ Stuttgard,  24th  May  1782. 

* * * < My  impatient  wish  to  see  the  piece  played  a second  time, 

and  the  absence  of  my  Sovereign  favouring  that  purpose,  have  induced 
me,  with  some  ladies  and  male  friends  as  full  of  curiosity  respecting 
Dalberg’s  theatre  and  Robbers  as  myself,  to  undertake  a little  journey  to 
Mannheim,  which  we  are  to  set  about  tomorrow.  As  this  is  the  prin- 
cipal aim  of  our  journey,  and  to  me  a more  perfect  enjoyment  of  my 
play  is  an  exceedingly  important  object,  especially  since  this  would  put 
it  in  my  power  to  set  about  Fiesco  under  better  auspices,  I make  it  my 
earnest  request  of  your  Excellency,  if  possible,  to  procure  me  this  en- 
joyment on  Tuesday  the  28tli  current.’  * * * 


‘ Stuttgard,  4th  Jane  1782. 

‘ The  satisfaction  I enjoyed  at  Mannheim  in  such  copious  fulness,  I 
have  paid,  since  my  return,  by  this  epidemical  disorder,  which  has 
made  me  till  today  entirely  unfit  to  thank  your  Excellency  for  so  much 
regard  and  kindness.  And  yet  I am  forced  almost  to  repent  the  happi- 
est journey  of  my  life ; for  by  a truly  mortifying  contrast  of  Mannheim 
with  my  native  country,  it  has  pained  me  so  much,  that  Stuttgard  and 
all  Swabian  scenes  are  become  intolerable  to  me.  TTnliappier  than  I 
am  can  nditme  be.  I have  feeling  enough  of  my  bad  condition,  perhaps 
also  feeling  enough  of  my  meriting  a better  ; and  in  both  points  of  view 
but  one  prospect  of  relief. 

‘ May  I dare  to  cast  myself  into  your  arms,  my  generous  benefactor  ? 
I know  how  soon  your  noble  heart  inflames  when  sympathy  and  hu- 
manity appeal  to  it  ; I know  how  strong  your  courage  is  to  undertake 
a noble  action,  and  how  warm  your  zeal  to  finish  it.  My  new  friends 
in  Mannheim,  whose  respect  for  you  is  boundless,  told  me  this : but 
their  assurance  was  not  necessary  ; I myself  in  that  hour  of  your  time, 
which  I had  the  happiness  exclusively  to  enjoy,  read  in  your  counte- 
nance far  more  than  they  had  told  me.  It  is  this  which  makes  me 
bold  to  give  myself  without  reserve  to  you,  to  put  my  whole  fate  into 
your  hands,  and  look  to  you  for  the  happiness  of  my  life.  As  yet  I am 
little  of  nothing.  In  this  Arctic  Zone  of  taste,  I shall  never  grow  to 
anything,  unless  happier  stars  and  a Grecian  climate  warm  me  into  gen- 
uine poetry.  Need  I say  more,  to  expect  from  Dalberg  all  support  ? 

‘■Tour  Excellency  gave  me  every  hope  to  this  effect;  the  squeeze  of 
the  hand  that  sealed  your  promise,  I shall  forever  feel.  If  your  Ex- 
cellency will  adopt  the  two  or  three  hints  I have  subjoined,  and  use 
them  in  a letter  to  the  Duke,  I have  no  very  great  misgivings  as  to  the 
result. 


APPENDIX. 


297 


‘ And.  now  with  a burning  heart,  I repeat  the  request,  the  soul  of  all 
this  letter.  Could  you  look  into  the  interior  of  my  soul,  could  you  see 
what  feelings  agitate  it,  could  I paint  to  you  in  proper  colours  how  my 
spirit  strains  against  the  grievances  of  my  condition,  you  would  not,  I 
know  you  would  not,  delay  one  hour  the  aid  which  an  application  from 
you  to  the  Duke  might  procure  me. 

1 Again  I throw  myself  into  your  arms,  and  wish  nothing  more  than 
soon,  very  soon,  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  show  by  personal  exertions 
in  your  service,  the  reverence  with  which  I could  devote  to  you  my- 
self and  all  that  I am.’ 

The  ‘ hints  ’ above  alluded  to,  are  given  in  a separate  enclosure,  the 
main  part  of  which  is  this : 

‘ I earnestly  desire  that  you  could  secure  my  union  with  the  Mann- 
heim Theatre  for  a specified  period  (which  at  your  request  might  be 
lengthened',  at  the  end  of  which  I might  again  belong  to  the  Duke.  It 
will  thus  have  the  air  rather  of  an  excursion  than  a final  abdication  of 
my  country,  and  will  not  strike  them  so  ungraciously.  In  this  case, 
however,  it  would  be  useful  to  suggest  that  means  of  practising  and 
studying  medicine  might  be  afforded  me  at  Mannheim.  This  will 
be  peculiarly  necessary,  lest  they  sham,  and  higgle  about  letting  me 
away.  ’ 


1 Stuttgard,  15th  July  17S2. 

‘ My  long  silence  must  have  almost  drawn  upon  me  the  reproach  of 
folly  from  your  Excellency,  especially  as  I have  not  only  delayed  an- 
swering your  last  kind  letter,  but  also  retained  the  two  books  by  me. 
All  this  was  occasioned  by  a harassing  affair  which  I have  had  to  do 
with  here.  Tour  Excellency  will  doubtless  be  surprised  when  you 
learn  that,  for  my  last  journey  to  you,  I have  been  confined  a fortnight 
under  arrest.  Everything  was  punctually  communicated  to  the  Duke. 
On  this  matter  I have  had  an  interview  with  him. 

‘ If  your  Excellency  think  my  prospects  of  coming  to  you  anywise 
attainable,  my  only  prayer  is  to  accelerate  the  fulfilment  of  them.  The 
reason  why  I now  wish  this  with  double  earnestness,  is  one  which  I 
dare  trust  no  whisper  of  to  paper.  This  alone  I can  declare  for  certain, 
that  within  a month  or  two,  if  I have  not  the  happiness  of  being  with 
you,  there  will  remain  no  further  hope  of  my  ever  being  there.  Ere 
that  time,  I shall  be  forced  to  take  a step,  which  will  render  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  stay  at  Mannheim.’  * * * 


The  next  two  extracts  are  from  letters  to  another  correspondent. 
Doering  quotes  them  without  name  or  date  : their  purport  sufficiently 
points  out  their  place. 


298 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


‘I  must  liaste  to  get  away  from  this:  in  the  end  they  might  find  me 
an  apartment  in  the  Hohenasperg,  as  they  have  found  the  honest  and 
ill-fated  Schubart.  They  talk  of  better  culture  that  I need.  It  is  pos- 
sible enough,  they  might  cultivate  me  differently  in  Hohenasperg : but 
I had  rather  try  to  make  shift  with  what  culture  I have  got,  or  may 
still  get,  by  my  unassisted  efforts.  This  at  least  I owe  to  no  one  but 
my  own  free  choice,  and  volition  that  disdains  constraint.’ 


‘ In  regard  to  those  affairs,  concerning  which  they  wish  to  put  my 
spirit  under  wardship,  I have  long  reckoned  my  minority  to  he  con- 
cluded. The  best  of  it  is,  that  one  can  cast  away  such  clumsy  man- 
acles : me  at  least  they  shall  not  fetter.’ 


[No  date.] 

‘Tour  Excellency  will  have  learned  from  my  friends  at  Mannheim, 
what  the  history  of  my  affairs  was  up  to  your  arrival,  which  unhappily 
I could  not  wait  for.  When  I tell  you  that  I am  flying  viy  country , I 
have  painted  my  whole  fortune.  But  the  worst  is  yet  behind.  I have 
not  the  necessary  means  of  setting  my  mishap  at  defiance.  For  the 
sake  of  safety,  I had  to  withdraw  from  Stuttgard  with  the  utmost  speed, 
at  the  time  of  the  Prince’s  arrival.  Thus  were  my  economical  arrange- 
ments suddenly  snapped  asunder : I could  not  even  pay  my  debts. 
My  hopes  had  been  set  on  a removal  to  Mannheim  ; there  I trusted,  by 
your  Excellency’s  assistance,  that  my  new  play  might  not  only  have 
cleared  me  of  debt,  but  have  permanently  put  me  into  better  circum- 
stances. All  this  was  frustrated  by  the  necessity  for  hastening  my  re-' 
moval.  I went  empty  away ; empty  in  purse  and  hope.  I blush  at 
being  forced  to  make  such  disclosures  to  you  ; though  I know  they  do 
not  disgrace  me.  Sad  enough  for  me  to  see  realised  in  myself  the 
hateful  saying,  that  mental  growth  and  full  stature  are  things  denied  to 
every  Swabian  ! 

‘ If  my  former  conduct,  if  all  that  your  Excellency  knows  of  my 
character,  inspires  you  with  confidence  in  my  love  of  honour,  permit 
me  frankly  to  ask  your  assistance.  Pressingly  as  I now  need  the  profit 
I expect  from  my  Fiesco,  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  have  the  piece 
in  readiness  before  three  weeks  : my  heart  was  oppressed  ; the  feeling 
of  my  own  situation  drove  me  back  from  my  poetic  dreams.  But  if  at 
the  specified  period,  I could  make  the  play  not  only  ready,  but,  as  I 
also  hope,  worthy , I take  courage  from  that  persuasion,  respectf Tilly  to 
ask  that  your  Excellency  would  be  so  obliging  as  advance  for  me  the 
price  that  will  then  become  due.  I need  it  now,  perhaps  more  than  I 
shall  ever  do  again  throughout  my  life.  I had  near  200  florins  of  debt 
in  Stuttgard,  which  I could  not  pay.  I may  confess  to  you,  that  this 


APPENDIX. 


299 


gives  me  more  uneasiness  than  anything  about  my  future  destiny.  I 
shall  have  no  rest  till  I am  free  on  that  side. 

‘ In  eight  days,  too,  my  travelling  purse  -will  be  exhausted.  It  is  yet 
utterly  impossible  for  me  to  labour  with  my  mind.  In  ray  hand,  there- 
fore, are  at  present  no  resources. 

& *****  * 

‘ My  actual  situation  being  clear  enough  from  what  I have  already 
said,  I hold  it  needless  to  afflict  your  Excellency  with  any  importuning 
picture  of  my  want.  Speedy  aid  is  all  that  I can  now  think  of  or  wish. 
Herr  Meyer  has  been  requested  to  communicate  your  Excellency’s  reso- 
lution to  me,  and  to  save  you  from  the  task  of  writing  to  me  in  person 
at  all.  With  peculiar  respect,  I call  myself,’  &c. 


It  is  pleasing  to  record  that  the  humble  aid  so  earnestly  and  modestly 
solicited  by  Schiller,  was  afforded  him  ; and  that  he  never  forgot  to 
love  the  man  who  had  afforded  it ; who  had  assisted  him,  when  assist- 
ance was  of  such  essential  value.  In  the  first  fervour  of  his  gratitude, 
for  this  and  other  favours  the  poet  warmly  declared  that  ‘ he  owed  all, 
all  to  Dalberg ; ’ and  in  a state  of  society  where  Patronage,  as  Miss  Edge- 
worth  has  observed,  directly  the  antipodes  of  Mercy,  is  in  general 
‘ twice  cursed,’  cursing  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes,  it  says  not  a 
little  for  the  character  both  of  the  obliged  and  the  obliger  in  the  pres- 
ent instance,  that  neither  of  them  ever  ceased  to  remember  their  con- 
nexion with  pleasure.  Schiller's  first  play  had  been  introduced  to  the 
Stage  by  Dalberg,  and  his  last  was  dedicated  to  him.1  The  venerable 
critic,  in  his  eighty-third  year,  must  have  received  with  a calm  joy  the 
tragedy  of  Tell,  accompanied  by  an  address  so  full  of  kindness  and 


1 It  clearly  appears  I am  wrong  here  ; I have  confounded  the  Freiherr  Wolfgang  Heri- 
bert  von  Dalberg,  Director  of  the  Mannheim  Theatre,  with  Archduke  and  Fiii'st  Primas 
Karl  Theodor  Dalberg,  his  younger  Brother, — a man  justly  eminent  in  the  Politico- 
Ecclesiastical  world  of  his  time,  and  still  more  distinguished  for  his  patronage  of  letters, 
and  other  benefactions  to  his  countr}',  than  the  Freiherr  was.  Neither  is  the  play  of 
Tell  1 dedicated 1 to  him,  as  stated  in  the  text ; there  is  merely  a copy  presented,  with 
some  verses  by  the  Author  inscribed  in  it ; at  which  time  Karl  Theodor  was  in  his 
sixtieth  year.  A man  of  conspicuous  station,  of  wide  activity,  and  high  influence  and 
es'  eem  in  Germany.  He  was  the  personal  friend  of  Herder,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Wieland ; 
by  Napoleon  he  was  made  Fiirst  Primas , Prince  Primate  of  the  Confederation  of  the 
Rhine,  being  already  Archbishop,  Elector  of  Mentz,  &c.  The  good  and  brave  deeds  he 
did  in  his  time  appear  to  have  been  many,  public  and  private.  Pensions  to  deserving 
men  of  letters  were  among  the  number  : Zacharias  Werner,  I remember,  had  a pension 
from  him, — and  still  more  to  the  purpose,  Jean  Paul  He  died  in  1S17.  There  was  a 
third  Brother  also  memorable  for  his  encouragement  of  Letters  and  Arts.  '■'1st  Jcein  Dal- 
berg da , Is  there  no  Dalberg  here  ? ” the  Herald  cries  on  a certain  occasion.  (See  Conv. 
Lexicon , b.  iii.) 

To  Sir  Edward  Bulwer,  in  his  Sketch  of  the  Life  of  Schiller  (p.  c.),  I am  indebted  for 
very  kindly  pointing  out  this  error  ; as  well  as  for  much  other  satisfaction  derived  from 
that  work.  {Note  of  1S45.) 


300 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


respect:  it  must  have  gratified  him  to  think  that  the  youth  who  was 
once  his,  and  had  now  become  the  world’s,  could,  after  long  experience, 
still  say  of  him, 

And  fearlessly  to  thee  may  Tell  be  shown, 

For  every  noble  feeling  is  thy  own. 

Except  this  early  correspondence,  very  few  of  Schiller’s  letters  have 
been  given  to  the  world. 1 In  Doering  s Appendix,  we  have  found  one 
written  six  years  after  the  poet  s voluntary  exile,  and  agreeably  con- 
trasted in  its  purport  with  the  agitation  and  despondency  of  that  un- 
happy  period.  We  translate  it  for  the  sake  of  those  who,  along  with 
us,  regret  that  while  the  world  is  deluged  with  insipid  correspondences, 
and  ‘ pictures  of  mind  ’ that  were  not  worth  drawing,  the  correspond- 
ence of  a man  who  never  wrote  unwisely  should  lie  mouldering  in 
private  repositories,  ere  long  to  he  irretrievably  destroyed ; that  the 
‘ picture  of  a mind  ’ who  was  among  the  conscript  fathers  of  the  human 
race  should  still  be  left  so  vague  and  dim.  This  letter  is  addressed  to 
Schwann,  during  Schiller’s  first  residence  in  Weimar:  it  has  already 
been  referred  to  in  the  Text. 


‘ Weimar,  2d  May  1TSS. 

‘You  apologise  for  your  long  silence  to  spare  me  the  pain  of  an 
apology.  I feel  this  kindness,  and  thank  you  for  it.  You  do  not  im- 
pute my  silence  to  decay  of  friendship ; a proof  that  you  have  read  my 
heart  more  justly  than  my  evil  conscience  allowed  me  to  hope.  Con- 
tinue to  believe  that  the  memory  of  you  lives  ineffaceably  in  my  mind, 
and  needs  not  to  he  brightened  up  by  the  routine  of  visits,  or  letters 
of  assurance.  So  no  more  of  this. 

‘ The  peace  and  calmness  of  existence  which  breathes  throughout 
your  letter,  gives  me  joy ; I who  am  yet  drifting  to  and  fro  between 
wind  and  waves,  am  forced  to  envy  you  that  uniformity,  that  health 
of  soul  and  body.  To  me  also  in  time  it  will  be  granted,  as  a recom- 
pense for  labours  I have  j'et  to  undergo. 

‘ I have  now  been  in  Weimar  nearly  three  quarters  of  a year  : after 
finishing  iny  Carlos , I at  last  accomplished  this  long-projected  journey. 
To  speak  honestly,  I cannot  say  hut  that  I am  exceedingly  contented 
with  the  place  ; and  my  reasons  are  not  difficult  to  see. 

‘ The  utmost  political  tranquillity  and  freedom,  a very  tolerable  dis- 
position in  the  people,  little  constraint  in  social  intercourse,  a select 
circle  of  interesting  -persons  and  thinking  heads,  the  respect  paid  to 
literary  diligence : add  to  this  the  unexpensiveness  to  me  of  such  a 
town  as  Weimar.  Why  should  I not  he  satisfied  ? 

1 There  have  since  been  copious  contributions : Correspondence  ■with  Goethe.  Corr  e- 
spondence with  Madam  von  Wolliogen,  and  perhaps  others  which  I have  not  seen. 
(Note  o/1845.) 


APPENDIX. 


301 


‘ With  Wieland  I am  pretty  intimate,  and  to  him  I must  attribute 
no  small  influence  on  my  present  happiness  ; for  I like  him,  and  have 
reason  to  believe  that  he  likes  me  in  return.  My  intercourse  with 
Herder  is  more  limited,  though  I esteem  him  highly  as  a writer  and  a 
man.  It  is  the  caprice  of  chance  alone  which  causes  this ; for  we 
opened  our  acquaintance  under  happy  enough  omens.  Besides,  I have 
not  always  time  to  act  according  to  my  likings.  With  Bode  no  one  can 
be  very  friendly.  I know  not  whether  you  think  here  as  I do.  Goethe 
is  still  but  expected  out  of  Italy.  The  Duchess  Dowager  is  a lady  of 
sense  and  talent,  in  whose  society  one  does  not  feel  constrained. 

‘ I thank  you  for  your  tidings  of  the  fate  of  Carlos  on  your  stage. 
To  speak  candidly,  my  hopes  of  its  success  on  any  stage  were  not  high ; 
and  I know  my  reasons.  It  is  but  fair  that  the  Goddess  of  the  Theatre 
avenge  herself  on  me,  for  the  little  gallantry  with  which  I was  inspired 
in  writing.  In  the  mean  time,  though  Carlos  prove  a never  so  de- 
cided failure  on  the  stage,  I engage  for  it,  our  public  shall  see  it  ten 
times  acted,  before  they  understand  and  fully  estimate  the  merit  that 
should  counterbalance  its  defects.  When  one  has  seen  the  beauty  of  a 
work,  and  not  till  then,  I think  one  is  entitled  to  pronounce  on  its  de- 
formity. I hear,  however,  that  the  second  representation  succeeded 
better  than  the  first.  This  arises  either  from  the  changes  made  upon 
the  piece  by  Dalberg,  or  from  the  fact,  that  on  a second  view,  the 
public  comprehended  certain  things,  which  on  a first,  they — did  not 
comprehend. 

1 For  the  rest,  no  one  can  be  more  satisfied  than  I am  that  Carlos, 
from  causes  honourable  as  well  as  causes  dishonourable  to  it,  is  no  specu- 
lation for  the  stage.  Its  very  length  were  enough  to  banish  it.  Nor 
was  it  out  of  confidence  or  self-love  that  I forced  the  piece  on  such  a 
trial  ; perhaps  out  of  self-interest  rather.  If  in  the  affair  my  vanity 
played  any  part,  it  was  in  this,  that  I thought  the  work  had  solid  stuff 
in  it  sufficient  to  outweigh  its  sorry  fortune  on  the  boards. 

‘ The  present  of  your  portrait  gives  me  true  pleasure.  I think  it  a 
striking  likeness  ; that  of  Schubart  a little  less  so,  though  this  opinion 
may  proceed  from  my  faulty  memory  as  much  as  from  the  faultiness  of 
Lobauer’s  drawing.  The  engraver  merits  all  attention  and  encourage- 
ment ; what  I can  do  for  the  extension  of  his  good  repute  shall  not  be 
-wanting. 

‘To  your  dear  children  present  my  warmest  love.  At  Wieland's  I 
hear  much  and  often  of  your  eldest  daughter  ; there  in  a few  days  she 
has  won  no  little  estimation  and  affection.  Do  I still  hold  any  place 
in  her  remembrance  ? Indeed,  I ought  to  blush,  that  by  my  long 
silence  I so  ill  deserve  it. 

‘ That  you  are  going  to  my  dear  native  country,  and  will  not  pass  my 
Father  without  seeing  him,  was  most  welcome  news  to  me.  The  Swabi- 
ans are  a good  people  ; this  I more  and  more  discover,  the  more  I grow 


302 


THE  LIFE  OF  FETED IU Oil  SCITIILER. 


acquainted  with  the  other  provinces  of  German}-.  To  my  family  you 
will  be  cordially  welcome.  Will  you  take  a pack  of  compliments  from 
me  to  them  ? Salute  my  Father  in  my  name  ; to  my  Mother  and  my 
Sisters  your  daughter  will  take  my  kiss.’ 

‘And  with  these  hearty  words,’  as  Doering  says, we  shall  conclude 
this  paper.’ 


No.  3.  Page  99. 

FRIENDSHIP  WITH  GOETHE. 

The  history  of  Schiller’s  first  intercourse  with  Goethe  has  been  re- 
corded by  the  latter  in  a paper  published  a few  years  ago  in  the  Morpho- 
logic, a periodical  work,  which  we  believe  he  still  occasionally  continues, 
or  purposes  to  continue.  The  paper  is  entitled  Happy  Incident ; and 
may  be  found  in  Part  I.  Volume  1 (pp.  90-96)  of  the  work  referred  to. 
The  introductory  portion  of  it  we  have  inserted  in  the  text  at  page  94  ; 
the  remainder,  relating  to  certain  scientific  matters,  and  anticipating 
some  facts  of  our  narrative,  we  judged  it  better  to  reserve  for  the  Ap- 
pendix. After  mentioning  the  publication  of  Don  Carlos,  and  adding 
that  ‘ each  continued  to  go  on  his  way  apart,’  he  proceeds  : 

‘ His  Essay  on  Grace  and  Dignity  was  yet  less  of  a kind  to  reconcile 
me.  The  Philosophy  of  Kant,  which  exalts  the  dignity  of  mind  su 
highly,  while  appearing  to  restrict  it,  Schiller  had  joyfully  embraced: 
it  unfolded  the  extraordinary  qualities  which  Nature  had  implanted  in 
him  ; and  in  the  lively  feeling  of  freedom  and  self-direction,  he  showed 
himself  unthankful  to  the  Great  Mother,  who  surely  had  not  acted  like 
a step-dame  towards  him.  Instead  of  viewing  her  as  self-subsisting,  as 
producing  with  a living  force,  and  according  to  appointed  laws,  alike 
the  highest  and  the  lowest  of  her  works,  he  took  her  up  under  the  aspect 
of  some  empirical  native  qualities  of  the  human  mind.  Certain  harsh 
passages  I could  even  directly  apply  to  myself : they  exhibited  my  con- 
fession of  faith  in  a false  light ; and  I felt  that  if  written  without  par- 
ticular attention  to  me,  they  were  still  worse  ; for  in  that  case,  the  vast 
chasm  which  lay  between  us  gaped  but  so  much  the  more  distinctly. 

‘ There  was  no  union  to  be  dreamed  of.  Even  the  mild  persuasion 
of  Dalberg,  who  valued  Schiller  as  he  ought,  was  fruitless:  indeed  the 
•reasons  I set  forth  against  any  project  of  a union  were  difficult  to  con- 
tradict. No  one  could  deny  that  betwen  two  spiritual  antipodes  there 
-was  more  intervening  than  a simple  diameter  of  the  sphere:  antipodes 
of  that  sort  act  as  a sort  of  poles,  and  so  can  never  coalesce.  But  that 
some -relation  may  exist  between  them  will  appear  from  what  follows. 

‘ Schiller  went  to  live  at  Jena,  where  I still  continued  unacquainted 
with  him.  About  this  time  Batscli  had  set  in  motion  a Society  for 
Natural  History,  aided  by  some  handsome  collections,  and  an  extensive 


APPENDIX. 


303 


apparatus.  I used  to  attend  their  periodical  meetings  : one  day  I found 
Schiller  there  ; we  happened  to  go  out  together ; some  discourse  arose 
between  us.  He  appeared  to  take  an  interest  in  what  had  been  ex- 
hibited ; but  observed,  with  great  acuteness  and  good  sense,  and  much  to 
my  satisfaction,  that  such  a disconnected  way  of  treating  Nature  was  by  no 
means  grateful  to  the  exoteric,  who  desired  to  penetrate  her  mysteries. 

‘I  answered,  that  perhaps  the  initiated  themselves  were  never  rightly 
at  their  ease  in  it,  and  that  there  surely  was  another  way  of  representing 
Nature,  not  separated  and  disunited,  but  active  and  alive,  and  expand- 
ing from  the  whole  into  the  parts.  On  this  point  he  requested  explana- 
tions, but  did  not  hide  his  doubts  ; he  would  not  allow  that  such  a mode, 
as  I was  recommending,  had  been  already  pointed  out  by  experiment. 

‘We  reached  his  house;  the  talk  induced  me  to  go  in.  I then  ex- 
pounded to  him  with  as  much  vivacity  as  possible,  the  Metamorphosis 
of  Plants ,'  drawing  out  on  paper,  with  many  characteristic  strokes,  a 
symbolic  Plant  for  him,  as  I proceeded.  He  heard  and  saw  all  this 
with  much  interest  and  distinct  comprehension  ; but  when  I had  done, 
he  shook  his  head  and  said:  “ This  is  no  experiment,  this  is  an  idea  ” 
I stopped  with  some  degree  of  irritation ; for  the  point  which  separated 
us  was  most  luminously  marked  by  this  expression.  The  opinions 
in  Dignity  and  Grace  again  occurred  to  me  ; the  old  grudge  was  just 
awakening  ; but  I smothered  it,  and  merely  said  : “I  was  happy  to  .find 
that  I had  got  ideas  without  knowing  it,  nay  that  I saw  them  before 
my  eyes.” 

‘Schiller  had  much  more  prudence  and  dexterity  of  management 
than  I : he  was  also  thinking  of  his  periodical  the  Horen , about  this 
time,  and  of  course  rather  wished  to  attract  than  repel  me.  Accordingly 
he  answered  me  like  an  accomplished  Kantite  ; and  as  my  stiff-necked 
Realism  gave  occasion  to  many  contradictions,  much  battling  took  place 
between  us,  and  at  last  a truce,  in  which  neither  party  would  consent  to 
yield  the  victory,  but  each  held  himself  invincible.  Positions  like  the 
following  grieved  me  to  the  very  soul : How  can  there  ever  he  an  experi- 
ment that  shall  correspond  with  an  idea  ? The  specific  quality  of  an  idea 
is,  that  no  experiment  can  reach  it  or  agree  with  it.  Yet  if  he  held  as  an 
idea  the  same  thing  which  I looked  upon  as  an  experiment,  there  must 
certainly,  I thought,  be  some  community  between  us,  some  ground 
whereon  both  of  us  might  meet ! The  first  step  was  now  taken  ; Schil- 
ler’s attractive  power  was  great,  he  held  all  firmly  to  him  that  came 
within  his  reach  : I expressed  an  interest  in  his  purposes,  and  prom- 
ised to  give  out  in  the  Horen  many  notions  that  were  lying  in  my  head  ; 
his  wife,  whom  I had  loved  and  valued  since  her  childhood,  did  her  part 
to  strengthen  our  reciprocal  intelligence  ; all  friends  on  both  sides  re- 

1 A curious  physiologico-botanical  theory  by  Goethe,  which  appears  to  be  entirely  un- 
known in  this  country  ; though  several  eminent  continental  botanists  have  noticed  it  with 
commendation.  It  is  explained  at  considerable  length  in  this  same  Morphology . 


304: 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


joiced  in  it ; and  thus  by  means  of  that  mighty  and  interminable  con- 
troversy between  object  and  subject,  we  two  concluded  an  alliance,  which 
remained  unbroken,  and  produced  much  benefit  to  ourselves  and 
others.  ’ 

The  friendship  of  Schiller  and  Goethe  forms  so  delightful  a chapter 
in  their  history,  that  we  long  for  more  and  more  details  respecting  it. 
Sincerity,  true  estimation  of  each  other’s  merit,  true  sympathy  in  each 
other’s  character  and  purposes  appear  to  have  formed  the  basis  of  it, 
and  maintained  it  unimpaired  to  .the  end.  Goethe,  we  are  told,  was 
minute  and  sedulous  in  his  attention  to  Schiller,  whom  he  venerated  as 
a good  man  and  sympathised  with  as  an  afflicted  one  : when  in  mixed 
companies  together,  he  constantly  endeavoured  to  draw  out  the  stores 
of  his  modest  and  retiring  friend;  or  to  guard- his  sick  and  sensitive 
mind  from  annoyances  that  might  have  irritated  him  ; now  softening, 
now  exciting  conversation,  guiding  it  with  the  address  of  a gifted  and 
polished  man,  or  lashing  out  of  it  with  the  scorpion-whip  of  his  satire 
much  that  would  have  vexed  the  more  soft  and  simple  spirit  of  the 
valetudinarian.  These  are  things  which  it  is  good  to  think  of : it  is 
good  to  know  that  there  are  literary  men,  who  have  other  principles  be- 
sides vanity  ; who  can  divide  the  approbation  of  their  fellow  mortals, 
without  quarrelling  over  the  lots  ; who  in  their  solicitude  about  their 
1 fame  ’ do  not  forget  the  common  charities  of  nature,  in  exchange  for 
which  the  ‘ fame  ’ of  most  authors  were  but  a poor  bargain. 


No.  4.  Page  106. 

DEATH  OF  GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS. 

As  a specimen  of  Schiller’s  historical  style,  we  have  extracted  a few 
scenes  from  his  masterly  description  of  the  Battle  of  Liitzen.  The 
whole  forms  a picture,  executed  in  the  spirit  of  Salvator  ; and  though 
this  is  but  a fragment,  the  importance  of  the  figure  represented  in  it 
will  perhaps  counterbalance  that  deficiency. 

‘ At  last  the  dreaded  morning  dawned ; but  a thick  fog,  which  lay 
brooding  over  all  the  field,  delayed  the  attack  till  uoon.  Kneeling  in 
front  of  his  lines,  the  King  offered  up  his  devotions  ; the  whole  army 
at  the  same  moment,  dropping  on  their  right  knees,  uplifted  a moving 
hymn,  and  the  field-music  accompanied  their  singing.  The  King  then 
mounted  his  horse  ; dressed  in  a jerkin  of  buff,  with  a surtout  (for  a 
late  wound  hindered  him  from  wearing  armour),  he  rode  through  the 
ranks,  rousing  the  courage  of  his  troops  to  a cheerful  confidence,  which 
liis  own  forecasting  bosom  contradicted.  God  with  xis  was  the  battle- 
word  of  the  Swedes  ; that  of  the  Imperialists  was  Jesus  Maria.  About 


APPENDIX. 


305 


eleven  o’clock,  the  fog  began  to  break,  and  Wallenstein's  lines  became 
visible.  At  the  same  time,  too,  were  seen  the  flames  of  Lutzen,  which 
the  Duke  had  ordered  to  be  set  on  fire,  that  he  might  not  be  outflanked 
on  this  side.  At  length  the  signal  pealed  ; the  horse  dashed  forward 
on  the  enemy  ; the  infantry  advanced  against  his  trenches. 

-x-  * * * # -x-  * 

‘ Meanwhile  the  right  wing,  led  on  by  the  King  in  person,  had  fallen 
on  the  left  wing  of  the  Friedlanders.  The  first  strong  onset  of  the 
heavy  Finland  Cuirassiers  scattered  the  light-mounted  Poles  and  Croats, 
who  were  stationed  here,  and  their  tumultuous  flight  spread  fear  and 
disorder  over  the  rest  of  the  cavalry.  At  this  moment  notice  reached 
the  King  that  his  infantry  were  losing  ground,  and  likely  to  be  driven 
back  from  the  trenches  they  had  stormed  ; and  also  that  his  left,  ex- 
posed to  a tremendous  fire  from  the  Windmills  behind  Lutzen,  could 
no  longer  keep  their  place.  With  quick  decision,  he  committed  to  Von 
Horn  the  task  of  pursuing  the  already  beaten  left  wing  of  the  enemy  ; 
and  himself  hastened,  at  the  head  of  Steinbock’s  regiment,  to  restore 
the  confusion  of  his  own.  His  gallant  horse  bore  him  over  the  trenches 
with  the  speed  of  lightning  ; but  the  squadrons  that  came  after  him 
could  not  pass  so  rapidly  ; and  none  but  a few  horsemen,  among  whom 
Franz  Albert,  Duke  of  Sachsen-Lauenburg,  is  mentioned,  were  alert 
enough  to  keep  beside  him.  He  galloped  right  to  the  place  where  his 
infantry  was  most  oppressed ; and  while  looking  round  to  spy  out  some 
weak  point,  on  which  his  attack  might  be  directed,  his  short-sighted- 
ness led  him  too  near  the  enemy’s  lines.  An  Imperial  sergeant  (ge- 
freiter),  observing  that  every  one  respectfully  made  room  for  the  ad- 
vancing horseman,  ordered  a musketeer  to  fire  on  him.  “Aim  at  him 
there,”  cried  he  ; “ that  must  be  a man  of  consequence.”  The  soldier 
drew  his  trigger ; and  the  King’s  left  arm  was  shattered  by  the  ball. 
At  this  instant,  his  cavalry  came  galloping  up,  and  a confused  cry  of 
'■‘■The  King  bleeds!  The  King  is  shot!"  spread  horror  and  dismay 
through  their  ranks.  “It  is  nothing:  follow  me!”  exclaimed  the 
King,  collecting  all  his  strength  ; but  overcome  with  pain,  and  on  the 
point  of  fainting,  he  desired  the  Duke  of  Lauenburg,  in  French,  to 
take  him  without  notice  from  the  tumult.  The  Duke  then  turned  with 
him  to  the  right  wing,  making  a wide  circuit  to  conceal  this  accident 
from  the  desponding  infantry  ; but  as  they  rode  along,  the  King  re-  .• 
ceived  a second  bullet  through  the  back,  which  took  from  him  the  last 
remainder  of  his  strength.  “ I have  got  enough,  brother,”  said  he  with 
a dying  voice  : “ haste,  save  thyself.”  With  these  words  he  sank  from 
his  horse  ; and  here,  struck  by  several  other  bullets,  far  from  his  at- 
tendants, he  breathed  out  his  life  beneath  the  plundering  hands  of  a 
troop  of  Croats.  His  horse  flying  on  without  its  rider,  and  bathed  in 
blood,  soon  announced  to  the  Swedish  cavalry  the  fall  of  their  King ; 
with  wild  yells  they  rush  to  the  spot,  to  snatch  that  sacred  spoil  from 
20 


30G 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


the  enemy.  A deadly  fight  ensues  around  the  "corpse,  and  the  mangled 
remains  are  buried  under  a hill  of  slain  men. 

‘ The  dreadful  tidings  hasten  in  a few  minutes  over  all  the  Swedish 
army  : but  instead  of  deadening  the  courage  of  these  hardy  troops,  they 
rouse  it  to  a fierce  consuming  fire.  Life  falls  in  value,  since  the  holiest 
of  all  lives  is  gone  ; and  death  has  now  no  terror  for  the  lowly,  since  it 
has  not  spared  the  anointed  head.  With  the  grim  fury  of  lions,  the 
Upland,  Smaland,  Finnish,  East  and  West  Gothland  regiments  dash 
a second  time  upon  the  left  wing  of  the  enemy,  which,  already  mak- 
ing but  a feeble  opposition  to  Von  Horn,  is  now  utterly  driven  from  the 
field. 

* * * * * * 

‘ But  how  dear  a victory,  how  sad  a triumph  ! Now  first  when  the 
rage  of  battle  has  grown  cold,  do  they  feel  the  whole  greatness  of  their 
loss,  and  the  shout  of  the  conqueror  dies  in  a mute  and  gloomy  despair. 
He  who  led  them  on  to  battle  has  not  returned  with  them.  Apart  he 
lies,  in  his  victorious  field,  confounded  with  the  common  heaps  of 
humble  dead.  After  long  fruitless  searching,  they  found  the  royal 
corpse,  not  far  from  the  great  stone,  which  had  already  stood  for  cen- 
turies between  Liitzen  and  the  Merseburg  Canal,  but  which,  ever  since 
this  memorable  incident,  has  borne  the  name  of  Schweclenstein,  the 
Stone  of  the  Swede.  Defaced  with  wounds  and  blood,  so  as  scarcely"  to 
be  recognised,  trodden  under  the  hoofs  of  horses,  stripped  of  his  orna- 
ments, even  of  his  clothes,  he  is  drawn  from  beneath  a heap  of  dead 
bodies,  brought  to  Weissenfels,  and  there  delivered  to  the  lamenta- 
tions of  his  troops  and  the  last  embraces  of  his  Queen.  Vengeance 
had  first  required  its  tribute,  and  blood  must  flow  as  an  offering  to  the 
Monarch  ; now  Love  assumes  its  rights,  and  mild  tears  are  shed  for 
the  Man.  Individual  grief  is  lost  in  the  universal  sorrow.  Astounded 
by  this  overwhelming  stroke,  the  generals  in  blank  despondency  stand 
round  his  bier,  and  none  yet  ventures  to  conceive  the  full  extent  of  his 
loss.  ’ 


The  descriptive  powers  of  the  Historian,  though  the  most  popular, 
are  among  the  lowest  of  his  endowments.  That  Schiller  was  not  want- 
ing in  the  nobler  requisites  of  his  art,  might  be  proved  from  his  reflec- 
tions on  this  very"  incident,  ‘ striking  like  a hand  from  the  clouds  into 
the  calculated  horologe  of  men’s  affairs,  and  directing  the  considerate 
mind  to  a higher  plan  of  things.’  But  the  limits  of  our  Work  are 
already  reached.  Of  Schiller’s  histories  and  dramas  we  can  give  no 
farther  specimens  : of  his  lyrical,  didactic,  moral  poems  we  must  take 
our  leave  without  giving  an.v.  Perhaps  the  time  may  come,  when  all 
his  writings,  transplanted  to  our  own  soil,  may"  be  offered  in  then-  entire 
dimensions  to  the  thinkers  of  these  Islands  ; a conquest  by  which  our 
literature,  rich  as  it  is,  might  be  enriched  still  farther. 


SUMMARY. 


PAET  I. 

SCHILLER’S  YOUTH. 

(1759—1784.) 

Introductory  remarks  : Schiller’s  high  destinjr.  His  Father's  career : 
Parental  example  and  influences.  Boyish  caprices  and  aspirations,  (p. 
7. ) — His  first  schoolmaster  : Training  for  the  Church  : Poetical  glim- 
merings. The  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg,  and  his  Free  Seminary  : Irksome 
formality  there.  Aversion  to  the  study  of  Law  and  Medicine.  (11.) — 
Literary  ambition  and  strivings : Economic  obstacles  and  pedantic 
hindrances:  Silent  passionate  rebellion.  Bursts  his  fetters.  (16.) — The 
Bobbers : An  emblem  of  its  young  author’s  baffled,  madly  struggling 
spirit:  Criticism  of  the  Characters  in  the  Play,  and  of  the  style  of  the* 
work.  Extraordinary  ferment  produced  by  its  publication  : Exagger- 
ated praises  and  condemnations:  Schiller’s  own  opinion  of  its  moral 
tendency.  (19.) — Discouragement  and  persecution  from  the  Duke  of 
Wiirtemberg.  Dalberg’s  generous  sympathy  and  assistance.  Schiller 
escapes  from  Stuttgard,  empty  in  purse  and  hope  : Dalberg  supplies  his 
immediate  wants : He  finds  hospitable  friends.  (29.) — Earnest  literary 
efforts.  Publishes  two  tragedies,  Fiesco  and  Kabale  unci  Liebe.  His 
mental  growth.  Critical  account  of  the  Conspiracy  of  Fiesco  : Fiesco’s 
genial  ambition  : The  Characters  of  the  Play  nearer  to  actual  humanity. 
How  all  things  in  the  Drama  of  Life  hang  inseparably  together.  (35.) 
— Kabale  und  Liebe,  a domestic  tragedy  of  high  merit : Noble  and  in- 
teresting characters  of  hero  and  heroine.  (41.) — The  stormy  confusions 
of  Schiller's  youth  now  subsiding.  Appointed  poet  to  the  Mannheim 
Theatre.  Nothing  to  fear  from  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg.  The  Pub- 
lic, his  only  friend  and  sovereign.  A Man  of  Letters  for  the  rest  of  his 
days.  (44. ) 


PART  n. 

FROM  HIS  SETTLEMENT  AT  MANNHEIM  TO  HIS  SETTLE- 
MENT AT  JENA. 

(1783—1790.) 

Reflections:  Difference  between  knowing  and  doing:  Temptations 
and  perils  of  a literary  life  : True  Heroism.  Schiller’s  earnest  and 
steadfast  devotion  to  his  Ideal  Good  : Misery  of  idleness  and  indecision. 


308 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCHILLER. 


(p.  46.) — German  esteem  for  tlie  Theatre.  Theatrical,  and  deeper  than, 
theatrical  activities : The  Rheinische  Thalia  and  Pldlosophiscl 'ie  Brief e. 
The  two  Eternities : The  bog  of  Infidelity  surveyed  but  not  crossed. 
(51.) — Insufficiency  of  Mannheim.  A pleasant  tribute  of  regard.  Let- 
ter to  Huber  : Domestic  tastes.  Removes  to  Leipzig.  Letter  to  his 
friend  Schwann:  A marriage  proposal.  Fluctuations  of  life.  (57.) — - 
Goes  to  Dresden.  Don  Carlos : Evidences  of  a matured  mind : Analysis 
of  the  Characters : Scene  of  the  King  and  Posa.  Alfieri  and  Schiller 
contrasted.  (64. ) — Popularity  : Crowned  with  laurels,  but  without  a 
home.  Forsakes  the  Drama.  Lyrical  productions:  Freigeisterei  der 
Leidensehaft.  The  Geister seller,  a Kovel.  Tires  of  fiction.  Studies  and 
tries  History.  (84. ) — Habits  at  Dresden.  Visits  Weimar  and  Bauer- 
bach.  The  Friiulein  Lengefeld : Thoughts  on  Marriage.  (89.) — First 
interview  with  Goethe : Diversity  in  their  gifts:  Their  mistaken  im- 
pression of  each  other.  Become  better  acquainted  : Lasting  friendship. 
(92.) — History  of  the  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands.  The  truest  form  of  His- 
tory-writing. Appointed  Professor  at  Jena.  Friendly  intercourse  with 
Goethe,  Marriage.  (97.) 


PART  in. 

FROM  HIS  SETTLEMENT  AT  JENA  TO  HIS  DEATH. 

(1790—1805.) 

Academical  duties.  Study  of  History  : Cosmopolitan  philosophy,  and 
national  instincts.  History  of  the  Thirty  -Tears  War.  (p.  101.) — Sick- 
ness, aud  help  in  it.  Heavy  trial  for  a literary  man.  Schiller's  una- 
bated zeal.  1 107.) — Enthusiasm  and  conflicts  excited  by  Kant’s  Phi- 
losophy. Schiller’s  growing  interest  in  the  subject:  Letters  on  HUsilutic 
Culture,  &c.  Claims  of  Kant’s  system  to  a respectful  treatment.  (110.) 
Fastidiousness  and  refinement  of  taste.  Literary  projects  : Epic  poems: 
Returns  to  the  Drama.  Outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution.  (115.  i — - 
Edits  the  Horen : Connexion  with  Goethe.  A pleasant  visit  to  his  pa- 
rents. Mode  of  life  at  Jena  : Night-studies,  and  bodily  stimulants.  (122.) 
• — Wallenstein : Brief  sketch  of  its  character  and  compass : Specimen 
scenes,  Max  Piccolomini  and  his  Father  ; Max  and  the  Princess  Thekla ; 
Thekla’s  frenzied  grief : No  nobler  or  more  earnest  dramatic  work. 
(129.) — Removes  to  Weimar:  Generosity  of  the  Duke.  Tragedy  of 
Maria  Stuart.  (151. ) — The  Maid  of  Orleans : Character  of  Jeanne  d' Arc : 
Scenes,  Joanna  and  her  Suitors  ; Death  of  Talbot ; Joanna  and  Lionel. 
Enthusiastic  reception  of  the  play.  (154.) — Daily  and  nightly  habits  at 
Weimar.  The  Bride  of  Messina.  Wilhelm  Tell:  Truthfulness  of  the 
Characters  and  Scenery : Scene,  the  Death  of  Gesler.  (170.) — Schiller’s 
dangerous  illness.  Questionings  of  Futurity.  The  last  sickness : Many 
things  grow  clearer : Death.  (186.)- -General  sorrow  for  his  loss.  His 
personal  aspect  : Modesty  and  simplicity  of  manner : Mental  gifts.  (187.) 
— Definitions  of  genius.  Poetic  sensibilities  and  wretchedness  : In  such 
miseries  Schiller  had  no  share.  A flue  example  of  the  German  charac- 
ter : No  cant;  no  cowardly  compromising  with  his  own  conscience; 
Childlike  simplicity.  Literary  Heroism.  (192.) 


SUMMARY. 


309 


SUPPLEMENT. 

Small  Book  by  Herr  Saupe,  entitled  ScMUer  and  Ms  Father's  House- 
hold. Really  interesting  and  instructive.  Translation,  with  slight  cor- 
rections and  additions,  (p.  202.) 


SCHILLER’S  FATHER. 

Johann  Caspar  Schiller,  born  in  Wurtemberg,  27th  October  1723.  At 
ten  years  a fatherless  Boy  poorly  educated,  he  is  apprenticed  to  a bar- 
ber-surgeon. Becomes  ‘ Army  Doctor  ’ to  a Bavarian  regiment.  Settles 
in  Marbach,  and  marries  the  daughter  of  a respectable  townsman,  after- 
wards reduced  to  extreme  poverty.  The  marriage,  childless  for  the 
first  eight  years.  Six  children  in  all : The  Poet  Schiller  the  only  Boy. 
(p.  203.) — Very  meagre  circumstances.  At  breaking-out  of  the  Seven- 
Years  War  returns  to  the  Army.  At  the  Ball  of  Fulda  ; at  the  Battle  of 
Leutlien.  Cheerfully  undertakes  anything  useful.  Earnestly  diligent 
and  studious.  Greatly  improves  in  general  culture,  and  even  saves 
money.  (205.) — Boards  his  poor  Wife  with  her  Father.  His  first 
Daughter  and  his  only  Son  born  there.  At  the  close  of  the  War  he 
carries  his  Wife  and  Children  to  his  own  quarters.  A just  man  ; simple, 
strong,  expert ; if  also  somewhat  quick  and  rough.  (206.) — Solicitude 
for  his  Son’s  education,  Appointed  Recruiting  Officer,  with  permission 
to  live  with  his  Family  at  Lorch.  The  children  soon  feel  themselves  at 
home  and  happy.  Little  Fritz  receives  his  first  regular  school  instruc- 
tion, much  to  the  comfort  of  his  Father.  Holiday  rambles  among  the 
neighbouring  hills  : Brotherly  and  Sisterly  affection.  Touches  of  boy- 
ish fearlessness:  Where  does  the  lightning  come  from'?  (208.) — -The 
Family  run  over  to  Ludwigsburg.  Fritz  to  prepare  for  the  clerical  pro- 
fession. At  the  Latin  School,  cannot  satisfy  his  Father’s  anxious  wishes. 
One  of  his  first  poems.  (211.) — The  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg  notices  his 
Father’s  worth,  and  appoints  him  Overseer  of  all  his  Forest  operations: 
With!  residence  at  his  beautiful  Forest- Castle,  Die  Solitude.  Fritz  re- 
mains at  the  Ludwigsburg  Latin  School : Continual  exhortations  and 
corrections  from  Father  and  Teacher.  Youthful  heresy.  First  ac- 
quaintance with  a Theatre.  (213.) — The  Duke  proposes  to  take  Fritz 
into  his  Military  Training-School.  Consternation  of  the  Schiller  Family. 
Ineffectual  expostulations  : Go  he  must.  Studies  Medicine.  Altogether 
withdrawn  from  his  Father’s  care.  Rigorous  seclusion  and  constraint. 
The  Duke  means  well  to  him.  (215.) — Leaves  the  School,  and  becomes 
Regimental-Doctor  at  Stuttgard.  His  Father’s  pride  in  him.  Extrava- 
gance and  debt.  His  personal  appearance.  (217.) — Publication  of  the 
Robbers.  His  Father’s  mingled  feelings  of  anxiety  and  admiration. 
Peremptory  command  from  the  Duke  to  write  no  more  poetry,  on  pain 
of  Military  Imprisonment.  Prepares  for  flight  with  his  friend  Streicher. 
Parting  visit  to  his  Family  at  Solitude:  His  poor  Mother’s  bitter  grief. 
Escapes  to  Mannheim.  Consternation  of  his  Father.  Happily  the  Duke 
takes  no  hostile  step.  (219.)— Disappointments  and  straits  at  Mannheim. 
Help  from  his  good  friend  Streicher.  He  sells  Fiesco,  and  prepares  to 
leave  Mannheim.  Through  the  kindness  of  Frau  von  Wolzogen  he 


310 


THE  LIFE  OF  FRIEDRICH  SCIIILLER. 


finds  refuge  in  Bauer  bach.  Affectionate  Letter  to  liis  Parents.  His 
Father’s  stern  solicitude  for  his  welfare.  (224.) — Eight  months  in  Bauer- 
bach,  under  the  name  of  Dr.  Bitter.  Un returned  attachment  to  Char- 
lotte Wolzogen.  Returns  to  Mannheim.  Forms  a settled  engagement 
with  Daiberg,  to  whom  his  Father  writes  his  thanks  and  anxieties. 
Thrown  on  a sick-bed:  His  Father’s  admonitions.  He  vainly  urges  his 
Son  to  petition  the  Duke  for  permission  to  return  to  Wiirtemberg  ; the 
poor  Father  earnestly  wishes  to  have  him  near  him  again.  Increasing 
financial  difficulties.  More  earnest  fatherly  admonition  and  advice. 
Enthusiastic  reception  of  Kabale  unci  I/iebe.  Don  Carlos  well  in  hand. 
A friend  in  trouble  through  mutual  debts.  Applies  to  his  Father  for 
unreasonable  help  Annoyance  at  the  inevitable  refusal.  His  Father’s 
loving  and  faithful  expostulation.  His  Sister’s  proposed  marriage  with 
Reinwald.  (227. ) — Beginning  of  his  friendly  intimacy  with  the  excellent 
Korner.  The  Duke  of  Weimar  bestows  on  him  the  title  of  Rath.  Ho 
farther  risk  for  him  from  Wiirtemberg.  At  Leipzig,  Dresden,  Weimar. 
Settles  at  last  as  Professor  in  Jena.  Marriage,  and  comfortable  home: 
His  Father  well  satisfied,  and  joyful  of  heart  Affectionate  Letter  to 
his  good  Father.  (236.) — Seized  with  a dangerous  affection  of  the  chest. 
Generous  assistance  from  Denmark.  Jojd'ui  visit  to  his  Family,  after 
an  absence  of  eleven  years.  Writes  a conciliatory  Letter  to  the  Duke. 
Birth  of  a Son.  The  Duke’s  considerateness  for  Schiller’s  Father.  The 
Duke’s  Death.  (238.) — Schiller’s  delight  in  his  Sisters,  Luise  and 
Nanette.  Letter  to  his  Father.  Visits  Stuttgard.  Returns  with  Wife 
and  Child  to  Jena.  Assists  his  Father  in  publishing  the  results  of  his 
long  experiences  of  gardens  and  trees.  Beautiful  and  venerable  old 
age.  (241.) — Thick-coming  troubles  for  the  Schiller  Family.  Death  of 
the  beautiful  Nanette  in  the  flower  of  her  years:  Dangerous  illness  of 
Luise  : The  Father  bedrid  with  gout.  The  poor  weakly  Mother  bears 
the  whole  burden  of  the  household  distress.  Sister  Christophine,  now 
Reinwald’s  Wife,  hastens  to  their  help.  Schiller’s  anxious  sympathy. 
His  Father’s  death.  Grateful  letters  to  Reinwald  and  to  his  poor 
Mother.  (245.) 

HIS  MOTHER. 

Elisabetha  Dorothea  Kodweis,  born  at  Marbach,  1733.  An  unpre- 
tending, soft  and  dutiful  Wife,  with  the  tenderest  Mother-heart.  A 
talent  for  music  and  even  for  poetry.  Verses  to  her  Husband.  Troubles 
during  the  Seven-Years  War.  Birth  of  little  Fritz.  The  Father  re- 
turns from  the  War.  Mutual  helpfulness,  and  affectionate  care  for 
their  children.  She  earnestly  desires  her  Son  may  become  a Preacher. 
His  confirmation.  Her  disappointment  that  it  was  not  to  be.  (p.  249.) — - 
Her  joy  and  care  for  him  whenever  he  visited  his  Home.  Her  innocent 
delight  at  seeing  her  Son’s  name  honoured  and  wondered  at.  Her 
anguish  and  illness  at  their  long  parting.  Brighter  days  for  them  all. 
She  visits  her  Son  at  Jena.  He  returns  the  visit,  with  Wife  and  Child. 
Her  strength  in  adversity.  Comfort  in  her  excellent  Daughter  Chris- 
tophine. Her  Husband’s  death.  Loving  and  helpful  sympathy  from 
her  Son.  (254.) — Receives  a pension  from  the  Duke.  Removes  with 
Luise  to  Leonberg.  Marriage  of  Luise  "Happy  in  her  children’s  love, 
and  in  their  success  in  life.  Her  last  illness  and  death.  Letters  Horn 
Schiller  to  his  Sister  Luise  and  her  kind  husband.  (264. ) 


SUMMARY. 


311 


HIS  SISTERS. 

Till  then-  Brother’s  flight  the  young  girls  had  known  no  misfortune. 
Diligent  household  occupations,  and  peaceful  contentment.  A love- 
passage  in  Christopliine’s  young  life.  Her  marriage  with  Reinwald. 
His  unsuccessful  career : Broken  down  in  health  and  hope.  Chris- 
tophine’s  loving,  patient  and  noble  heart.  For  twenty-nine  years  they 
lived  contentedly  together.  Through  life  she  was  helpful  to  all  about 
her  ; never  liindersome  to  any.  (p.  267.) — Poor  Nanette’s  brief  history. 
Her  excitement,  when  a child,  on  witnessing  the  performance  of  her 
Brother’s  Kabale  und  Liebe.  Her  ardent  secret  wish,  herself  to  repre- 
sent his  Tragedies  on  the  Stage.  All  her  young  glowing  hopes  stilled 
in  death.  (274.) — Luise’s  betrothal  and  marriage.  An  anxious  Mother, 
and  in  all  respects  an  excellent  Wife.  Her  Brother’s  last  loving  Letter 
to  her.  His  last  illness,  and  peaceful  death.  (275.) 


APPENDIX. 

No.  1.  DANIEL  SCHUBART. 

Influence  of  Schubart’s  persecutions  on  Schiller’s  mind.  His  Birth 
and  Boyhood.  Sent  to  Jena  to  study  Theology  : Profligate  life  : Re- 
turns home.  Popular  as  a preacher  : Skilful  in  music.  A joyful,  pip- 
ing, guileless  mortal,  (p.  280.) — Prefers  pedagogy  to  starvation.  Mar- 
ries. Organist  to  the  Duke  of  Wurtemberg.  Headlong  business, 
amusement  and  dissipation.  His  poor  Wife  returns  to  her  Father : 
Ruin  and  Banishment.  A vagabond  life.  (281.) — Settles  at  Augsburg, 
and  sets  up  a Newspaper  : Again  a prosperous  man  : Enmity  of  the 
Jesuits.  Seeks  refuge  in  Him:  His  Wife  and  Family  return  to  him. 
The  Jesuits  on  the  watch.  Imprisoned  for  ten  years : Interview  with 
young  Schiller.  (283.) — Is  at  length  liberated  : Joins  his  Wife  at  Stutt- 
gard,  and  reestablishes  his  Newspaper.  Literary  enterprises : Death. 
Summary  of  his  character.  (286.) 

No.  2.  LETTERS  OF  SCHILLER  TO  DALBERG. 

Brief  account  of  Dalberg.  Schiller's  desire  to  remove  to  Mannheim. 
Adaptation  of  the  Robbers  to  the  stage,  (p.  290. ) — Struggles  to  get  free 
from  Stuttgard  and  his  Ducal  Jailor  : Dalberg’s  friendly  help.  Friendly 
letter  to  his  friend  Schwann.  (295.) 

No.  3.  FRIENDSHIP  WITH  GOETHE. 

Goethe’s  feeling  of  the  difference  in  their  thoughts  and  aims : Great 
Nature  not  a phantasm  of  her  children’s  brains.  Growing  sympathy 
and  esteem,  unbroken  to  the  end.  (p.  302.) 

No.  4.  DEATH  OF  GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS. 

Schiller’s  historical  style.  A higher  than  descriptive  power,  (p.  304.) 


INDEX 


Adolphus,  Gustavus,  death  of,  304, 

Alfieri  and  Schiller  contrasted,  82. 

Beziehungen  zu  Eltern , &c.  cited,  203. 

Carlo Don , Schillers,  published,  05  ; crit- 
ical account  of,  06 ; scene  of  the  King 
and  Posa,  71  ; immediate  and  general  ap- 
probation, 83  ; Schillers  own  opinion  of 
its  worth,  301. 

Christian’s,  Prince,  grandfather  befriends 
Schiller,  238. 

Consbruch,  Doctor,  259. 

Dal  berg,  Bamn  von,  Schiller’s  connexion 
with.  223,  228. 

Dalberg,  Wolfang,  Heribert  von,  brief  ac- 
count of,  289. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  154.  , 

Epics,  Modern,  119. 

Fiesco.  Verschworung  des,  Schiller’s  tra- 
gedy of  the,  35. 

Ernnkh,  M.,  Schiller’s  brother-in-law,  264, 
266,  276.  See  Luise  Schiller. 

Gleichen,  Baroness  von,  Schiller’s  daughter, 
203  note , 277. 

Goethe’s  intercourse  and  connexion  with 
Schiller,  92,  99,  122,  302;  his  composure 
amid  the  Kantean  turmoil.  111 ; his  rever- 
ent and  stubborn  Realism,  302. 

History,  methods  of  writing,  97,  101. 

Hofmannswaldau,  252. 

Hohenheim,  Countess  von,  257. 

Ideal  good,  49. 

Idleness,  misery  of.  50. 

Jahn,  Johann  Friedrich,  Schiller's  Latin 

1 teacher,  212,  214. 

Jeanne  d’Arc,  character  of,  154. 

Kabal#  und  Liebe,  Schiller’s,  a domestic 
tragedy  of  high  merit.  40. 

Kant’s  Philosophy,  110 ; Goethe’s  opinion 
of,  302. 

Kodweis,  Georg  Friedrich,  Schiller’s  ma- 
ternal grandfather.  204. 

Korner’s  friendship  for  Schiller,  236,  239. 

Lengefeld’s,  Lottchen  von,  marriage  with 
Schiller,  258. 

Literary  life,  temptations,  perils  and  hero- 
isms of  a,  46,  108,  197. 

Maul  of  Orleans,  Schiller’s,  154;  scenes 
showing  Joanna,  Talbot,  Lionel  and 
others,  159. 

Maria  Stuart , Schiller’s  tragedy  of.  152. 

Meier,  Madam,  a friend  of  Schiller’s,  221. 

Messina,  Bride  of  Schiller’s,  171. 

Miller,  Obrist  von,  269. 

Moser,  C.  F.,  Schiller’s  first  boy-friend,  208. 


Paul,  Czar,  visits  Wurtemberg,  222. 

PJnlosophisehe  Brief e,  character  of  Schil- 
ler’s, 54. 

Qeinwald,  Schiller’s  brother-in  law,  227, 
235,  269:  letter  from  Schiller,  247.  See 
Christophine  Schiller. 

j Robbers,  the,  Schiller’s  play  of,  19:  not  an 
immoral  work,  26 ; consequences  to  its 
author  of  its  publication,  29  ; remodelled 
for  the  stage,  291. 

Roos,  Herr,  sees  Schiller’s  mother.  264. 

Saupe’s  * Schiller  and  his  Father’s  House- 
hold,’ 202-277. 

Schiller,  Christophine.  born,  206;  affection 
for  her  Brother,  209,  210,  214,  251  : mar- 
riage with  Reinwald,  235,  241,  269-273; 
visits  the  old  home  to  help  in  sickness, 
246,  262 : letter  from  her  Brother,  261  ; 
her  peaceful  early  life,  267 ; her  poor 
husband's  grateful  recognition  of  her 
worth,  273. 

Schiller,  Elisabetba  Dorothea,  the  root’s 
mother,  204,  249  ; Schiller’s  birth,  206, 
250 ; care  of  his  childhood,  209.  251-5 ; 
sorrow  at  their  long  parting,  222,  257 ; 
in  the  midst  of  sickness  and  death,  246, 
261  ; letter  from  her  Son,  248 ; her  ex- 
cellent character,  249  ; verses  to  her  hus- 
band : troubles  during  the  Seven-Years 
War,  250  : anxiety  for  her  Son,  254,  255 ; 
visits  him  at  Jena,  259;  his  affectionate 
care  for  her  on  his  Father’s  death,  263  ; 
she  receives  a pension  from  the  Duke  : 
264  ; Roos’s  sketch  of  her  personal  ap- 
pearance, 264  ; her  last  letter  to  her  Son, 
205 ; died  in  her  sixty-ninth  year,  267. 

Schiller.  Friedrich,  bom  in  Wurtemberg, 
9:  character  and  circumstances  of  his  pa- 
rents, 9,  10 ; boyish  caprices  and  aspira- 
tions, 11 : intended  for  the  clerical  profes- 
sion, 12 ; first  poetry,  12, 13  ; the  Duke  of 
Wiirtemberg's  School.  14;  intolerable  con- 
straint, 15-18;  publication  of  the  Hollers, 
19,  27 ; consequent  persecution,  28;  is  en- 
couraged by  Dalberg,  32 ; escapes  from 
Stuttgard.  33  ; finds  refuge  at  Bauerbach, 
34 ; settles  in  Mannheim,  43 ; his  lofty 
striving,  48  ; removes  to  Leipzig,  60  : pro- 
posal of  marriage,  60;  goes  to  Dresden, 
64 ; crowned  with  laurels,  but  without  a 
home,  85  ; lyrical  productions,  85 ; tires  of 
fiction,  S7  : habits  at  Dresden,  89  ; visits 
Weimar,  91;  meets  the  Fraulein  Lenge- 
feld,  92  ; first  acquaintance  with  Goethe, 


314 


INDEX. 


02  ; appointed  Professor  of  History  at  1 
Jena,  09;  marriage,  100;  study  of  History, 
101 ; sickness,  107;  influence  of  Kant,  110;  1 
epic  projects,  119  ; returns  to  the  Drama, 
120:  connexion  with  G-oethe,  122;  visits 
his  Parents,  126 ; removes  to  Weimar, 
151  ; enthusiastic  reception  of  the  Maid 
of  Orleans , 160 ; his  last  sickness  and 
death,  1S6  : his  personal  aspect  and  men- 
tal gifts,  180. 

Schiller,  Friedrich,  Saupe’s  account  of,  202- 
277  ; his  birth.  205,  251 ; early  instruction, 
207-8,  251,  2 ; childhood  at  Lorch,  208-9  ; 
school  at  Ludwigsburg ; preparing  to  be 
a clergyman,  211,  253  : one  of  his  earliest 
poems,  212 : youthful  heresy,  214;  first  sees 
a Theatre,  214;  taken  into  the  Duke's  mili-  \ 
tary  School, 215-16:  appointed  Regimental  j 
Doctor  at  Stuttgard,  217  ; his  personal  ap- 
pearance. 218  ; publication  of  the  Robbers , 
219  ; anger  of  the  Duke,  219  ; forbidden  to 
write  poetry  ; prepares  for  flight,  220 ; in 
great  straits  at  Mannheim,  223-6;  Fiesco , 
224  ; letter  to  his  Parents,  226  ; at  Bauer- 
bach,  227  ; Kabale  und  Liebe  ; returns  to 
Mannheim,  228-233  ; intermittent  fever, 

228- 9,  238  ; refuses  to  petition  the  Duke. 

229- 30 ; increasing  difficulties,  230-33 ; 
angry  at  his  Father.  233  ; Don  Carlos  ; 
befriended  by  the  Duke  of  Weimar,  235 ; 
at  Leipzig,  Dresden,  Weimar  ; Professor 
in  Jena,  236;  marries  Lottchen  von 
Lengefeld,  236.  25S  ; letter  to  his  Father, 
236 ; shattered  health  ; generous  help 
from  Denmaik,  238;  joyful  visit  to  his 
Family;  birth  of  his  first  Son.  239-243, 
260:  writes  to  the  Duke  of  Wurtemberg, 
239;  letter  to  his  Parents,  243  : returns  to 
Jena,  245  ; anxiety  for  troubles  at  home  ; 
birth  of  his  second  Son,  245 ; letters  to 
Reinwald  and  to  his  Mother  on  his 
Father’s  death,  247-8;  affection  for  his 
good  Mother,  257-S;  stie  visits  him  at 
Jena,  259;  letters  to  his  Sister  Christo-  , 
phine,  260-1  ; to  his  Mother  in  her  widow- 
hood, 263 ; to  her  Sister  Luise,  and  to 
her  husoand,  266:  his  last  letter  to  Luise, 
276 ; his  constant  brotnerly  love  : his  last 
illness,  and  peaceful  death.  277-8, 

Schiller.  Johann  Casper,  the  Poet’s  Father  ; 
his  parentage  and  birth  : early  struggles 
and  marriage,  203 ; in  the  Seven-Years 
War.  204,  205,  250  ; returns  to  bis  family. 
207,  251 : Recruiting  Officer  to  the  Duke 
of  Wurtemberg,  20S  ; anxiety  for  his  Son’s 
education,  208.  212,  215 : transferred  to 
Ludwigsburg,  211  : Forest  Overseer  to  the 
Duke  at  Solitude,  213  ; anger  at  his  Son’s 
flight  from  Wurtemberg,  223  ; anxiety  for 


his  welfare,  227,  229-31 : writes  to  Dal-' 
berg,  22S : e^o-tulates^with  his  8on,  233 ; 
joy  at  his  success,  235,  236.  237  : writes  to 
him  in  behalf  of  Nanette.  242  : publishes 
his  experiences  in  tree  culture,  245  : bed- 
ridden with  gout,  245 ; died  in  his 
seventy-third  year.  246. 

Schiller.  Johann  Friedrich,  the  Poet's  God- 
father, 208. 

Schiller  Johannes,  the  Poet’s  Grandfather, 
203. 

Schiller’s  Letters,  2S9;  specimen  of  his 
historical  style,  iJ04. 

Schiller,  Luise,  born,  213:  her  affectionate 
helpfulness..  241,  275;  ill  of  fever,  245, 
276;  marries  M.  Frankh,  264.  276; 
nurses  her  poor  old  Mother,  265;  her 
Brothers  last  letter,  276. 

Schiller.  Nanette,  the  Poet's  youngest  Sis- 
ter, 242 : stricken  down  by  fever,  245  ; 
her  sad  brief  history.  274,  275. 

Schiller's  Leben , verfasst  aus,  &c;  cited, 
203. 

Schiller’s  Leben  von  Gustav  Schwab  cited, 
203. 

SchVler  und  sein  Vaterliches  Hans  cited, 
203. 

Schimmelmann,  Count  von,  befriends 
1 Schiller,  238. 

Schnbart,  Daniel,  account  of.  279,  298. 

Shakspeare,  Schiller’s  first  impression  of, 
17. 

Streicher,  Johann  Andreas,  friend  and  com- 
panion of  Schiller's  flight,  221-2,  224. 

Theatre,  German  estimarion  of  the.  50. 

Wallenstein,  Schiller's  brief  sketch  of.  129 ; 
scene  of  Max  Piccolomini  and  his  Father, 
137 : of  Max  and  the  Princess  Thekla, 
142  : of  Thekla's  last  resolve.  144. 

Weimar,  Duke  Karl  August  of,  befriends 
Schiller,  151,  235. 

Wilhelm  Tell , Schiller’s,  truthfulness  of, 
172;  scene  of  the  death  of  Gessler.  176. 

Wolzogen,  Frau  von,  befriends  Schiller, 
225,  260  ; Schiller’s  affection  for  her 
daughter.  228,  257. 

Wolzogen,  Wilhelm  von,  225. 

Wordsworth,  174. 

Wurtemberg.  Duke  of,  gives  employment  to 
Schiller's  Father,  9,  20S.  211,  213 : under- 
takes the  education  of  Schiller,  14:  not 
equal  to  the  task.  30,  297 : takes  Schiller 
into  his  military  School,  216-17  : anger  at 
the  Robbers , 219;  forbids  any  m<  re 
poetry,  220  : shows  no  hostility  to  the 
Schiller  family.  223,  240  ; his  death.  241. 

Xenien , the,  a German  Dunciad  by  Goethe 
and  Schiller,  123. 

Zilliug,  Schiller's  theological  teacher,  214. 


CRITICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS 


COLLECTED  AND  REPUBLISHED 


BY  * 

THOMAS  CAELYLE 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  AND 
FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES.— THE  NIBEL  UNQEN 
LIED.  —APPENDIX. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  B.  ♦ ALDEN,  PUBLISHER, 
1885. 


TROW’S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


GERMAN  LITERATURE 


OF  THE 


FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES. 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  AND 
FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES. 

Historical  literary  significance  of  Reynard  the  Fox.  Tlie  Troubadour 
Period  in  general  Literature,  to  which  the  Swabian  Era  in  Germany  an- 
swers. General  decay  of  Poetry  : Futile  attempts  to  account  for  such 
decay  : The  world  seems  to  have  rhymed  itself  out ; and  stern  business, 
not  sportfully,  but  with  h»rsh  endeavour,  was  now  to  be  done.  Italy, 
for  a time,  a splendid  exception  in  Dante  and  Petrarch.  The  change 
not  a fall  from  a higher  spiritual  state  to  a lower  ; but  rather,  a passing 
from  youth  into  manhood,  (p.  5). — Literature  now  became  more  and 
more  Didactic,  consisting  of  wise  Apologues,  Fables,  Satires,  Moralities  : 
This  Didactic  Spirit  reached  its  acme  at  the  era  of  the  Reformation.  Its 
gradual  rise*:  The  Striker,  and  others.  Some  account  of  Hugo  von 
Trimberg  : A cheerful,  clear-sighted,  gentle-hearted  man,  with  a quiet, 
sly  humour  in  him  : His  Renner,  a singular  old  book  ; his  own  simple, 
honest,  mildly  decided  character  everywhere  visible  in  it.  (13). — Be- 
ner,  and  his  Edelstein,  a collection  of  Fables  done  into  German  rhyme 
from  Latin  originals  : Not  so  much  a Translator  as  a free  Imitator  ; he 
tells  his  story  in  his  own  way,  and  freely  appends  his  own  moral..  Fa- 
ble, the  earliest  and  simplest  product  of  Didactic  Poetry : The  Four- 
teenth Century  an  age  of  Fable  in  a wider  sense  : Narratives  and  Mys- 
teries. A serious  warning  to  Critics ! Adventures  of  Tyll  EuUnepiegcl. 
(25). — In  the  religious  Cloisters,  also  were  not  wanting  men  striving 
with  purer  enthusiasm  after  the  highest  problem  of  manhood,  a life  of 
spiritual  Truth:  Johann  Tauler,  and  Thomas.a  Kempis.  On  all  hands 
an  aspect  of  full  progress  : Robber  Barons,  and  Merchant  Princes.  The 
spirit  of  Inquiry,  of  Invention,  conspicuously  busy:  Gunpowder,  Print- 
ing, Paper.  In  Literature,  the  Didactic,  especially  the  HTsopic  spirit 
became  abundantly  manifest.  (38). — Reynard  the  Fox,  the  best  of  all 
Apologues  ; for  some  centuries  a universal  household  possession,  and 
secular  Bible : Antiquarian  researches  into  its  origin  and  history : Not 
the  work  of  any  single  author,  but  a growth  and  contribution  of  many 
generations  and  countries.  A rude,  wild  Parody  of  Human  Life,  full 
of  meaning  and  high  moral  purpose  : Its  dramatic  consistency  : Occa- 
sional coarseness,  and  other  imperfections.  Philological  interest  of  the 
old  Low-German  original  : The  language  of  our  old  Saxon  Fatherland, 
still  curiously  like  our  own.  The  Age  of  Apologue,  like  that  of  Chiv- 
alry and  Love-singing,  now  gone.  Where  are  now  our  People’s-Books  ? 

149). 


GERMAN  LITERATURE 

OF  THE 

FOURTEENTH  AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES.’ 


[1831.] 

It  is  not  with  Herr  Soltau’s  work,  and  its  merits  or  de- 
merits, that  we  here  purpose  to  concern  ourselves.  The  old 
Low-German  Apologue  was  already  familiar  under  many 
shapes  ; in  versions  into  Latin,  English  and  all  modern 
tongues  : if  it  now  comes  before  our  German  friends  under  a 
new  shape,  and  they  can  read  it  not  only  in  Gottsched’s  pro- 
saic Prose,  and  Goethe’s  poetic  Hexameters,  but  also  ‘ in  the 
metre  of  the  original, ’namely,  in  Doggerel ; and  this,  as  would 
appear,  not  without  comfort,  for  it  is  ‘ the  second  edition  ; ’ — 
doubtless  the  Germans  themselves  will  look  to  it,  will  direct 
Herr  Soltau  aright  in  his  praiseworthy  labours,  and,  with  all 
suitable  speed,  forward  him  from  his  second  edition  into  a 
third.  To  us  strangers  the  fact  is  chiefly  interesting,  as  an- 
other little  memento  of  the  indestructible  vitality  there  is  in 
worth,  however  rude  ; and  to  stranger  Reviewers,  as  it  brings 
that  wondrous  old  Fiction,  with  so  much  else  that  holds  of  it, 
once  more  specifically  into  view. 

The  Apologue  of  Reynard  the  Fox  ranks  undoubtedly  among 
the  most  remarkable  Books,  not  only  as  a German,  but,  in  all 
senses,  as  a European  one  ; and  yet  for  us  perhaps  its  extrin- 
sic, historical  character  is  even  more  noteworthy  than  its  in- 

1 Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  No.  16 Reinecfce  der  Fuchs , uber- 

setzt  wn  D.  W.  Soltau  (Reynard  the  Fox,  translated  by  D,  IV.  Soltau). 
2d  edition,  8vo.  Liineburg,  1830. 


6 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


trinsic.  In  Literary  History  it  forms,  so  to  speak,  the  cul- 
minating point,  or  highest  manifestation  of  a Tendency  which 
had  ruled  the  two  prior  centuries  : ever  downwards  from  the 
last  of  the  Hohenstauffen  Emperors,  and  the  end  of  their 
Swabian  Era,  to  the-  borders  of  the  Reformation,  rudiments 
and  fibres  of  this  singular  Fable  are  seen,  among  innumerable 
kindred  things,  fashioning  themselves  together ; and  now, 
after  three  other  centuries  of  actual  existence,  it  still  stands 
visible  and  entire,  venerable  in  itself,  and  the  enduring  me- 
morial of  much  that  has  proved  more  perishable.  Thus,  nat- 
urally enough,  it  figures  as  the  representative  of  a whole  group 
that  historically  cluster  round  it  ; in  studying  its  significance, 
we  study  that  of  a whole  intellectual  period. 

As  this  section  of  German  Literature  closely  connects  itself 
with  the  corresponding  section  of  European  Literature,  and 
indeed  offers  an  expressive,  characteristic  epitome  thereof, 
some  insight  into  it,  were  such  easily  procurable,  might  not 
be  without  profit.  No  Literary  Historian  that  we  know  of, 
least  of  all  any  in  England,  having  looked  much  in  this  direc- 
tion, either  as  concerned  Germany  or  other  countries,  whereby 
a long  space  of  time,  once  busy  enough  and  full  of  life,  now 
lies  barren  and  void  in  men’s  memories, — we  shall  here  en- 
deavour to  present,  in  such  clearness  as  first  attempts  may 
admit,  the  result  of  some  slight  researches  of  our  own  in  re- 
gard to  it. 

The  Troubadour  Period,  in  general  Literature,  to  which  the 
Swabian  Era  in  German  answers,  has,  especially  within  the 
last  generation,  attracted  inquiry  enough  ; the  French  have 
their  Raynouards,  we  our  Webers,  the  Germans  their  Haugs, 
Graters,  Langs,  and  numerous  other  Collectors  and  Translat- 
ors of  Minnelieder  ; among  whom  Ludwig  Tieck,  the  foremost 
in  far  other  provinces,  has  not  disdained  to  take  the  lead.  We 
shah  suppose  that  this  Literary  Period  is  partially  known  to 
all  readers.  Let  each  recall  whatever  he  has  learned  or  figured 
regarding  it ; represent  to  himself  that  brave  young  heyday  of 
Chivalry  and  Minstrelsy,  when  a stem  Larbarossa,  a stern 
Lion-heart,  sang  sirvent.es,  and  with  the  hand  that  could  wield 
the  sword  and  sceptre  twanged  the  melodious  strings  ; when 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


7 


knights- errant  tilted,  and  ladies’  eyes  rained  bright  influences  ; 
and  suddenly,  as  at  sunrise,  the  whole  Earth  had  grown  vocal 
and  musical.  Then  truly  was  the  time  of  singing  come  ; for 
princes  and  prelates,  emperors  and  squires,  the  wise  and  the 
simple,  men,  women  and  children,  all  sang  and  rhymed,  or 
delighted  in  hearing  it  done.  It  wras  a universal  noise  of 
Song  ; as  if  the  Spring  of  Manhood  had  arrived,  and  warblings 
from  every  spray,  not  indeed  without  infinite  twitterings  also, 
which,  except  their  gladness,  had  no  music,  were  bidding  it 
welcome.  This  was  the  Swabian  Era ; justly  reckoned  not 
only  superior  to  all  preceding  eras,  but  properly  the  First  Era 
of  German  Literature.  Poetry  had  at  length  found  a home  in 
the  life  of  men  ; and  every  pure  soul  was  inspired  by  it ; and 
in  words,  or  still  better,  in  actions,  strove  to  give  it  utterance. 
‘Believers,’  says  Tieck,  ‘sang  of  Faith;  Lovers  of  Love; 
‘ Knights  described  knightly  actions  and  battle  ; and  loving, 
‘believing  knights  were  their  chief  audience.  The  Spring, 
‘ Beauty,  Gaiety,  were  objects  that  could  never  tire;  great 
‘ duels  and  deeds  of  arms  carried  away  every  hearer,  the  more 
‘ surely  the  stronger  they  were  painted  ; and  as  the  pillars 
‘ and  dome  of  the  Church  encircled  the  flock,  so  did  Religion, 

‘ as  the  Highest,  encircle  Poetry  and  Reality  ; and  every  heart, 

‘ in  equal  love,  humbled  itself  before  her.’ 1 

Let  the  reader,  we  say,  fancy  all  this,  and  moreover  that, 
as  earthly  things  do,  it  is  all  passing  away.  And  now,  from 
this  extreme  verge  of  the  Swabian  Era,  let  us  look  forward 
into  the  inane  of  the  next  two  centuries,  and  see  whether 
there  also  some  shadows  and  dim  forms,  significant  in  their 
kind,  may  not  begin  to  grow  visible.  Already,  as  above  in- 
dicated, Reinecke  cle  Eos  rises  clear  in  the  distance,  as  the  goal 
of  our  survey  : let  us  now,  restricting  ourselves  to  the  German 
aspects  of  the  ma'tter,  examine  what  may  he  between. 

Conrad  the  Fourth,  who  died  in  1254,  was  the  last  of  the 
Swabian  Emperors  ; and  Conradin  his  son,  grasping  too  early 
at  a Southern  Crown,  perished  on  the  scaffold  at  Naples  in 
1268  ; with  which  stripling,  more  fortunate  in  song  than  in 
war,  and  whose  death,  or  murder,  with  fourteen  years  of  other 
1 Minnelieder  aus  dem  Schwiibischen  Zeitalter.  (Vorrede,  x.) 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


cruelty,  the  Sicilian  Vespers  so  frightfully  avenged,  the  im- 
perial line  of  the  Hohenstauffen  came  to  an  end.  Their 
House,  as  we  have  seen,  gives  name  to  a Literary  Era  ; and 
truly,  if  dates  alone  were  regarded,  we  might  reckon  it  much 
more  than  a name.  For  with  this  change  of  dynasty,  a great 
change  in  German  Literature  begins  to  indicate  itself  ; the  fall 
of  the  Hohenstauffen  is  close  followed  by  the  decay  of  Poetry ; 
as  if  that  fair  flowerage  and  umbrage,  which  blossomed  far  and 
wide  round  the  Swabian  Family,  had  in  very  deed  depended 
on  it  for  growth  and  life  ; and  now,  the  stem  being  felled,  the 
leaves  also  were  languishing,  and  soon  to  wither  and  drop 
away.  Conradin,  as  his  father  and  his  grandfather  had  been, 
was  a singer  ; some  hues  of  his,  though  he  died  in  his  six- 
teenth year,  have  even  come  down  to  us  ; but  henceforth  no 
crowned  poet,  except,  long  afterwards,  some  few  with  -cheap 
laurel-crowns,  is  to  be  met  with  : the  Gay  Science  was  visibly 
declining.  In  such  times  as  now  came,  the  court  and  the 
great  could  no  longer  patronise  it ; the  polity  of  the  Empire 
was,  by  one  convulsion  after  another,  all  but  utterly  dismem- 
bered ; ambitious  nobles,  a sovereign  without  power  ; conten- 
tion, violence,  distress,  everywhere  prevailing.  Bichard  of 
Cornwall,  who  could  not  so  much  as  keep  hold  of  his  sceptre, 
not  to  speak  of  swaying  it  wisely  ; or  even  the  brave  Rudolf 
of  Hapsburg,  who  manfully  accomplished  both  these  duties, 
had  other  work  to  do  than  sweet  singing.  Gay  b ars  of  the 
Wartburg  were  now  changed  to  stern  Battles  of  the  Marchfdd  ; 
in  his  leisure  hours  a good  Emperor,  instead  of  twanging 
harps,  must  hammer  from  his  helmet  the  dints  it  had  got  in 
his  working  and  lighting  hours.1  Amid  such  rude  tumults 
the  Minne-Song  could  not  but  change  its  scene  and  tone  : if, 

1 It  was  on  this  famous  plain  of  the  Marchfeld  that  Ottocar,  King  of 
Bohemia,  conquered  Bela  of  Hungary,  in  1260  ; and  was  himself,  in 
1278  conquered  and  slain  by  Rudolf  of  Hapsburg,  at  that  time  much 
left  to  his  own  resources  ; whose  talent  for  mending  helmets,  however, 
is  perhaps  but  a poetical  tradition.  Curious,  moreover  : it  was  here 
again,  after  more  than  five  centuries,  that  the  House  of  Hapsburg  re- 
ceived its  worst  overthrow,  and  from  a new  and  greater  Rudolf,  namely, 
from  Napoleon,  at  Wagram,  which  lies  in  the  middle  of  this  same  March- 
feld. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


9 


indeed,  it  continued  at  all,  wbicli,  however,  it  scarcely  did  ; 
for  now,  no  longer  united  in  courtly  choir,  it  seemed  to  lose 
both  its  sweetness  and  its  force,  gradually  became  mute,  or  in 
remote  obscure  corners  lived  on,  feeble  and  inaudible,  till 
after  several  centuries,  when  under  a new  title,  and  with  far 
inferior  claims,  it  again  solicits  some  notice  from  us. 

Doubtless,  in  this  posture  of  affairs  political,  the  progress 
of  Literature  could  be  little  forwarded  from  w'ithout ; in  some 
directions,  as  in  that  of  Court-Poetry,  we  may  admit  that  it 
was  obstructed  or  altogether  stopped.  But  why  not  only 
Court-Poetry,  but  Poetry  of  all  sorts  should  have  declined, 
and  as  it  w7ere  gone  out,  is  quite  another  question  ; to  which, 
indeed,  as  men  must  have  their  theory  on  everything,  answer 
has  often  been  attempted,  but  only  with  partial  success.  To 
most  of  the  German  Literary  Historians  this  so  ungenial  con- 
dition of  the  Court  and  Government  appears  enough  : by  the 
warlike,  altogether  practical  character  of  Rudolf,  by  the  im- 
becile ambition  of  his  successors,  by  the  general  prevalence  of 
feuds  and  lawless  disorder,  the  death  of  Poetry  seems  fully 
accounted  for.  In  which  conclusion  of  theirs,  allowing  all 
force  to  the  grounds  it  rests  on,  we  cannot  but  perceive  that 
there  lurks  some  fallacy  : the  fallacy  namely,  so  common  in 
these  times,  of  deducing  the  inward  and  spiritual  exclusively 
from  the  outward  and  material  ; of  tacitly,  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, denying  all  independent  force,  or  even  life,  to  the 
former,  and  looking  out  for  the  secret  of  its  vicissitudes  solely 
in  some  circumstance  belonging  to  the  latter.  How  it  cannot 
be  too  often  repeated,  where-  it  continues  still  unknown  or 
forgotten,  that  man  has  a soul  as  certainly  as  he  has  a body  ; 
nay,  much  more  certainly  ; that  properly  it  is  the  course  of 
his  unseen,  spiritual  life,  which  informs  and  rules  his  external 
visible  life,  rather  than  receives  rule  from  it ; in  which  spirit- 
ual life,  indeed,  and  not  in  any  outward  action  or  condition 
arising  from  it,  the  true  secret  of  his  history  lies,  and  is  to  be 
sought  after,  and  indefinitely  approached.  Poetry  above  all, 
we  should  have  known  long  ago,  is  one  of  those  mysterious 
things  whose  origin  and  developments  never  can  be  what  we 
call  explained ; often  it  seems  to  us  like  the  wind,  blowing 


10 


EARLY'  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


where  it  lists,  coming  and  departing  with  little  or  no  regard 
to  any  the  most  cunning  theory  that  has  yet  been  devised  of 
it.  Least  of  all  does  it  seem  to  depend  on  court-patronage, 
the  form  of  government,  or  any  modification  of  politics  or 
economics,  catholic  as  these  influences  have  now  become  in 
our  philosophy : it  lives  in  a snow-clad  sulphurous  Iceland, 
and  not  in  a sunny  wine-growing  France  ; flourishes  under 
an  arbitrary  Elizabeth,  and  dies  out  under  a constitutional 
George  ; Philip  II.  has  his  Cervantes,  and  in  prison  ; Wash- 
ington and  Jackson  have  only  their  Coopers  and  Browns. 
Why  did  Poetry  appear  so  brightly  after  the  Battles  of  Ther- 
mopylae and  Salamis,  and  quite  turn  away  her  face  and  wings 
from  those  of  Lexington  and  Bunker’s  Hill  ? We  answer,  the 
Greeks  were  a poetical  people,  the  Americans  are  not ; that  is 
to  say,  it  appeared  because  it  did  appear  ! On  the  whole,  we 
could  desire  that  one  of  two  things  should  happen  : Either 
that  our  theories  and  genetic  histories  of  Poetry  should  hence- 
forth cease,  and  mankind  rest  satisfied,  once  for  all,  with  Dr. 
Cabanis’  theory,  which  seems  to  be  the  simplest,  that  ‘ Poetry 
is  a product  of  the  smaller  intestines,’  and  must  be  cultivated 
medically  by  the  exhibition  of  castor-oil : Or  else  that,  in  fut- 
ure speculations  of  this  kind,  we  should  endeavour  to  start 
with  some  recognition  of  the  fact,  once  well  known,  and  still 
in  words  admitted,  that  Poetry  is  Inspiration  ; has  in  it  a cer- 
tain spirituality  and  divinity  which  no  dissecting-knife  will 
discover  ; arises  in  the  most  secret  and  most  sacred  region  of 
man’s  soul,  as  it  were  in  our  Holy  of  Holies  ; and  as  for  ex- 
ternal things,  depends  only  on  such  as  can  operate  in  that 
region ; among  which  it  will  be  found  that  Acts  of  Parliament, 
and  the  state  of  the  Smitlifield  Markets,  nowise  play  the  chief 
part. 

With  regard  to  this  change  in  German  Literature  especially, 
it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  the  phenomenon  was  not  a German, 
but  a European  one  ; whereby  we  easily  infer  so  much  at 
least,  that  the  roots  of  it  must  have  lain  deeper  than  in  any 
change  from  Hohenstauffen  Emperors  to  Hapsburg  ones. 
For  now  the  Troubadours  and  Trouveres,  as  well  as  the 
Minnesingers,  were  sinking  into  silence ; the  world  seems  to 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


11 


have  rhymed  itself  out ; those  chivalrous  roundelays,  heroic 
tales,  mythologies,  and  quaint  love-sicknesses,  had  grown  un- 
profitable to  the  ear.  In  fact,  Chivalry  itself  was  in  the  wane  ; 
and  with  it  that  gay  melody,  like  its  other  pomp.  More  ear- 
nest business,  not  sportfully,  but  with  harsh  endeavour,  was 
now  to  be  done.  The  graceful  minuet-dance  of  Fancy  must 
give  place  to  the  toilsome,  thorny  pilgrimage  of  Understand- 
ing. Life  and  its  appurtenances  and  possessions,  which  had 
been  so  admired  and  besung,  now  disclosed,  the  more  they 
came  to  be  investigated,  the  more  contradictions.  The  Church 
no  longer  rose  with  its  pillars,  ‘ like  a venerable  dome  over  the 
united  flock ; ’ but,  more  accurately  seen  into,  was  a strait 
prison,  full  of  unclean  creeping  things ; against  which  thral- 
dom all  better  spirits  could  not  but  murmur  and  struggle. 
Everywhere  greatness  and  littleness  seemed  so  inexplicably 
blended  : Nature,  like  the  Sphinx,  her  emblem,  with  her  fail- 
woman’s  face  and  neck,  showed  also  the  claws  of  a lioness. 
Now  too  her  Riddle  had  been  propounded  ; and  thousands  of 
subtle,  disputatious  Schoolmen  were  striving  earnestly  to 
rede  it,  that  they  might  live,  morally  live,  that  the  monster 
might  not  devour  them.  These,  like  strong  swimmers,  in 
boundless  bottomless  vortices  of  Logic,  swam  manfully,  but 
could  not  get  to  land. 

On  a better  course,  yet  with  the  like  aim,  Physical  Science 
was  also  unfolding  itself.  A Roger  Bacon,  an  • Albert  the 
Great,  are  cheering  appearances  in  this  era  ; not  blind  to  the 
greatness  of  Nature,  yet  no  longer  with  poetic  reverence  of 
her,  but  venturing  fearlessly  into  her  recesses,  and  extorting 
from  her  many  a secret ; the  first  victories  of  that  long  series 
which  is  to  make  man  more  and  more  her  Ring.  Thus  every- 
where we  have  the  image  of  contest,  of  effort.  The  spirit  of 
man,  which  once,  in  peaceful,  loving  communion  with  the 
Universe,  had  uttered  forth  its  gladness  in  Song,  now  feels 
hampered  and  hemmed-in,  and  struggles  vehemently  to  make 
itself  room.  Power  is  the  one  thing  needful,  and  that  Knowl- 
edge which  is  Power  : thus  also  Intellect  becomes  the  grand 
faculty,  in  which  all  the  others  are  wellnigh  absorbed. 

Poetry,  which  has  been  defined  as  ‘ the  harmonious  unison 


12 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


of  Man  "with  Nature,’  could  not  flourish  in  this  temper  of  the 
times.  The  number  of  poets,  or  rather  versifiers,  henceforth 
greatly  diminishes  ; their  style  also,  and  topics,  are  different 
and  less  poetical.  Men  wish  to  be  practically  instructed 
rather  than  poetically  amused : Poetry  itself  must  assume  a 
preceptorial  character,  and  teach  wholesome  saws  and  moral 
maxims,  or  it  will  not  be  listened  to.  Singing  for  the  song’s 
sake  is  now  nowhere  practised  ; but  in  its  stead  there  is 
everywhere  the  jar  and  bustle  of  argument,  investigation,  con- 
tentious activity.  Such  throughout  the  fourteenth  century  is 
the  general  aspect  of  mind  over  Europe.  In  Italy  alone  is 
there  a splendid  exception  ; the  mystic  song  of  Dante,  with  its 
stern  indignant  moral,  is  followed  by  the  light  love-rhymes  of 
Petrarch,  the  Troubadour  of  Italy,  when  this  class  was  extinct 
elsewhere : the  master  minds  of  that  country,  peculiar  in  its 
social  and  moral  condition,  still  more  in  its  relations,  to  classi- 
cal Antiquity,  pursue  a course  of  their  own.  But  only  the 
master  minds  ; for  Italy  too  has  its  Dialecticians,  and  projec- 
tors, and  reformers  ; nay,  after  Petrarch,  these  take  the  lead  ; 
and  there  as  elsewhere,  in  their  discords  and  loud  assiduous 
toil,  the  voice  of  Poetry  dies  away. 

To  search  out  the  causes  of  this  great  revolution,  which 
lie  not  in  Politics  nor  Statistics,  would  lead  ns  far  beyond 
our  depth.  Meanwhile  let  us  remark  that  the  change  is 
nowise  to  be  considered  as  a relapse,  or  fall  from  a higher 
state  of  spiritual  culture  to  a lower  ; but  rather,  so  far  as  we 
have  objects  to  compare  it  with,  as  a quite  natural  progress 
and  higher  development  of  culture.  In  the  history  of  the 
universal  mind,  there  is  a certain  analogy  to  that  of  the  in- 
dividual. Our  first  self-consciousness  is  the  first  revelation 
to  us  of  a whole  universe,  wondrous  and  altogether  good  ; it 
is  a feeling  of  joy  and  new-found  strength,  of  mysterious 
infinite  hope  and  capability  ; and  in  all  men,  either  by  word 
or  act,  expresses  itself  poetically.  The  world  without  us  and 
within  us,  beshone  by  the  young  light  of  Love,  and  all  in- 
stinct with  a divinity,  is  beautiful  and  great  ; it  seems  for  us 
a boundless  happiness  that  we  are  privileged  to  live.  This 
£3  the  season  of  generous  deeds  and  feelings  ; which  also,  on 


EARL  T GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


13 


the  lips  of  the  gifted,  form  themselves  into  musical  utterance, 
and  give  spoken  poetry  as  well  as  acted.  Nothing  is  calcu- 
lated and  measured,  but  all  is  loved,  believed,  appropriated. 
All  action  is  spontaneous,  high  sentiment  a sure,  imperish- 
able good  ; and  thus  the  youth  stands,  like  the  First  Man,  in 
his  fair  Garden,  giving  Names  to  the  bright  Appearances  of 
this  Universe  which  he  has  inherited,  and  rejoicing  in  it  as 
glorious  and  divine.  Erelong,  however,  comes  a harsher 
time.  Under  the  first  beauty  of  man’s  life  appears  an  in- 
finite, earnest  rigour  : high  sentiment  will  not  avail,  unless  it 
can  continue  to  be  translated  into  noble  action  ; which  prob- 
lem, in  the  destiny  appointed  for  man  born  to  toil,  is  difficult, 
interminable,  capable  of  only  approximate  solution.  "What 
flowed  softly  in  melodious  coherence  when  seen  and  sung 
from  a distance,  proves  rugged  and  unmanageable  when 
practically  handled.  The  fervid,  lyrical  gladness  of  past 
years  gives  place  to  a collected  thoughtfulness  and  energy ; 
nay  often, — so  painful,  so  unexpected  are  the  contradictions 
everywhere  met  with,- — to  gloom,  sadness  and  anger  ; and 
not  till  after  long  struggles  and  hard-contested  victories  is  the 
youth  changed  into  a man. 

Without  pushing  the  comparison  too  far,  we  may  say  that 
in  the  culture  of  the  European  mind,  or  in  Literature  which 
is  the  symbol  and  product  of  this,  a certain  similarity  of  prog- 
ress is  manifested.  That  tuneful  Chivalry,  that  high  cheer- 
ful devotion  to  the  Godlike  in  heaven,  and  to  Women,  its 
emblems  on  earth ; those  Crusades  and  vernal  Love-songs 
were  the  heroic  doings  of  the  world’s  youth  ; to  which  also 
a corresponding  manhood  succeeded.  Poetic  recognition  is 
followed  by  scientific  examination  : the  reign  of  Fancy  with 
its  gay  images,  and  graceful,  capricious  sports,  has  ended  ; 
and  now  Understanding,  which  when  reunited  to  Poetry,  will 
one  day  become  Reason  and  a nobler  Poetry,  has  to  do  its 
part.  Meantime,  while  there  is  no  such  union,  but  a more 
and  more  widening  controversy,  prosaic  discord  and  the  un- 
musical sounds  of  labour  and  effort  are  alone  audible. 

The  era  of  the  Troubadours,  who  in  Germany  are  the  Min- 
nesingers, gave  place  in  that  country,  as  in  all  others,  to  a 


14 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


period  which  we  might  name  the  Didactic  ; for  Literature 
now  ceased  to  he  a festal  melody,  and  addressing  itself  rather 
to  the  intellect  than  to  the  heart,  became  as  it  were  a school- 
lesson.  Instead  of  that  cheerful,  warbling  Song  of  Love  and 
Devotion,  wherein  nothing  was  taught,  but  all  was  beheved 
and  worshipped,  we  have  henceforth  only  wise  Apologues, 
Fables,  Satires,  Exhortations  and  all  manner  of  edifying 
Moralities.  Poetry,  indeed,  continued  still  to  be  the  form 
of  composition  for  all  that  can  be  named  Literature  ; except 
Chroniclers,  and  others  of  that  genus,  valuable  not  as  doers 
of  the  work,  but  as  witnesses  of  the  work  done,  these  Teachers 
all  wrote  in  verse  : nevertheless,  in  general  there  are  few  ele- 
ments of  Poetry  in  their  performances  ; the  internal  structure 
has  nothing  poetical,  is  a mere  business-like  prose  : in  the 
rhyme  alone,  at  most  in  the  occasional  graces  of  expression, 
could  we  discover  that  it  reckoned  itself  poetical.  In  fact,  we 
may  say  that  Poetry,  in  the  old  sense,  had  now  altogether 
gone  out  of  sight : instead  of  her  heavenly  vesture  and  Ariel- 
harp,  she  had  put  on  earthly  weeds,  and  walked  abroad  with 
ferula  and  horn-book.  It  was  long  before  this  new  guise 
would  sit  well  on  her  ; only  in  late  centimes  that  she  ctjuld 
fashion  it  into  beauty,  and  learn  to  move  with  it,  and  mount 
with  it,  gracefully  as  of  old. 

Looking  now  more  specially  to  our  historical  task,  if  we 
inquire  how  far  into  the  subsequent  time  this  Didactic  Period 
extended,  no  precise  answer  can  well  be  given.  On  this  side 
there  seem  no  positive  limits  to  it ; with  many  superficial 
modifications,  the  same  fundamental  element  pervades  all 
spiritual  efforts  of  mankind  through  the  following  centuries. 
We  may  say  that  it  is  felt  even  in  the  Poetry  of  our  own 
time ; nay,  must  be  felt  through  all  time  ; inasmuch  as  Li- 
quiry  once  awakened  cannot  fall  asleep,  or  exhaust  itself ; 
thus  Literature  must  continue  to  have  a didactic  charac- 
ter ; and  the  Poet  of  these  days  is  he  who,  not  indeed  by  me- 
chanical but  by  poetical  methods,  can  instinct  us,  can  more 
and  more  evolve  for  us  the  mystery  of  our  Life.  However, 
after  a certain  space,  this  Didactic  Spirit  in  Literature  can- 
not, as  a historical  partition  and  landmark,  be  available  here 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


15 


At  the  era  of  the  Reformation,  it  reaches  its  acme  ; and,  in 
singular  shape,  steps  forth  on  the  high  places  of  Public 
Business,  and  amid  storms  and  thunder,  not  without  bright- 
ness and  true  fire  from  Heaven,  convulsively  renovates  the 
world.  This  is,  as  it  were,  the  apotheosis  of  the  Didactic 
Spirit,  where  it  first  attains  a really  poetical  concentration, 
and  stimulates  mankind  into  heroism  of  word  and  of  action 
also.  Of  the  latter,  indeed,  still  more  than  of  the  former  ; 
for  not  till  a much  more  recent  time,  almost  till  our  own 
time,  has  Inquiry  in  some  measure  again  reconciled  itself  to 
Belief ; and  Poetry,  though  in  detached  tones,  arisen  on  us, 
as  a true  musical  Wisdom.  Thus  is  the  deed,  in  certain  cir- 
cumstances, readier  and  greater  than  the  word : Action 
strikes  fiery  light  from  the  rocks  it  has  to  hew  through  ; 
Poetry  reposes  in  the  skyey  splendour  which  that  rough 
passage  has  led  to.  But  after  Luther’s  day,  this  Didactic 
Tendency  again  sinks  to  a lower  level ; mingles  with  mani- 
fold other  tendencies  ; among  which,  admitting  that  it  still 
forms  the  main  stream,  it  is  no  longer  so  preeminent,  positive 
and  universal,  as  properly  to  characterise  the  whole.  For 
minor  Periods  and  subdivisions  in  Literary  History,  other  more 
superficial  characteristics  must,  from  time  to  time,  be  fixed  on. 

Neither,  examining  the  other  limit  of  this  Period,  can  we 
say  specially  where  it  begins  ; for,  as  usual  in  these  things,  it 
begins  not  at  once,  but  by  degrees : Kings’  reigns  and  changes 
in  the  form  of  Government  have  them  day  and  date  ; not  so 
changes  in  the  spiritual  condition  of  a people.  The  Minne- 
singer Period  and  the  Didactic  may  be  said  to  commingle,  as  it 
were,  to  overlap  each  other,  for  above  a century  : some  writers 
partially  belonging  to  the  latter  class  occur  even  prior  to  the 
times  of  Friedrich  H. ; and  a certain  echo  of  the  Minnesong  had 
continued  down  to  Manesse’s  day,  under  Ludwig  the  Bavarian. 

Thus  from  the  Minnesingers  to  the  Church  Reformer  we  have 
a wide  space  of  between  two  and  three  centuries ; in  which, 
of-  course,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  do  more  than  point  out 
one  or  two  of,  the  leading  appearances  ; a minute  survey  and 
exposition  being  foreign  from  our  object. 

Among  the  Minnesingers  themselves,  as  already  hinted, 


16 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


there  are  not  wanting  some  with  an  occasionally  didactic 
character  : Gottfried  of  Strasburg,  known  also  as  a translator 
of  Sir  Tristrem,  and  two  other  singers,  Ileinmar  von  Zweter 
and  Walter  von  der  Vogelweide,  are  noted  in  this  respect ; 
the  last  two  especially,  for  their  oblique  glances  at  the  Pope 
and  his  Monks,  the  unsound  condition  of  which  body  could 
not  escape  even  a Love-minstrel’s  eye.'  But  perhaps  the 

1 Reinmar  von  Zweter,  for  example,  says  once  : 

Har  und  hart  nach  klostersitten,  gesnitten 
Res  mnd  icli  gennog, 

Icli  vinde  aber  der  nit  vil  dies  relite  tragen  ; 

Halb  visch  licdb  man  ist  visch  nodi  man , 

Gar  visch  ist  visch,  gar  man  ist  man, 

Als  icli  erkennen  lean  : 

Von  hofmunchen  und  von  Jdosterrittern 
Kan  icli  nilit  gesagen  : 

Hofmunchen,  klosterrittern,  diesen  beiden 
Wolt  icli  relit  ze  relite  wol  bescheiden, 

Ob  sie  sich  wolten  lassen  vinden, 

Da  sie  ze  relite  solten  wesen; 

In  ldoster  munclie  solten  genesen, 

So  suln  des  hofs  sich  ritter  unterwinden. 

Hair  and  beard  cut  in  the  cloister  fashion 
Of  this  I find  enough, 

But  of  those  that  wear  it  well  I find  not  many  ; 

Half-fish  half-man  is  neither  fish  nor  man, 

Whole  fish  is  fish,  whole  man  is  man, 

As  I discover  can  : 

Of  court-monks  and  of  cloister-knights 
Can  I not  speak  : 

Court-monks,  cloister-knights,  these  both 
Would  I rightly  put  to  rights, 

Whether  they  would  let  themselves  be  found 
Where  they  by  right  should  be  ; 

In  their  cloister  monks  should  flourish, 

And  knights  obey  at  court. 

See  also  in  Fliigel  ( GescMchte  der  Komischen  Litteratur , b.  iii.  s.  11), 
immediately  following  this  Extract,  a formidable  dinner  course  of  Lies, 
■ — boiled  lies,  roasted  lies,  lies  with  saffron,  forced-meat  lies,  and  other 
varieties,  arranged  by  this  same  artist;— farther  (in  page  9),  a rather  gal- 
lant onslaught  from  Walter  von  der  Volgelweide,  on  the  Bnbest  (Pope, 
Papst)  himself.  All  this  was  before  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


17 


special  step  of  transition  may  be  still  better  marked  in  the 
works  of  a.  rhymer  named  the  Strieker,  whose  province  was 
the  epic,  or  narrative  ; into  which  he  seems  to  have  introduced 
this  new  character  in  unusual  measure.  As  the  Strieker  still 
retains  some  shadow  of  a place  in  Literary  History,  the  fol- 
lowing notice  of  him  may  be  borrowed  here.  Of  his  personal 
history,  it  may  be  premised,  nothing  whatever  is  known  ; not 
even  why  he  bears  this  title  ; unless  it  be,  as  some  have  fan- 
cied, that  Strieker,  which  now  signifies  Knitter,  in  those  days 
meant  Schreiber  (Writer)  : 

‘In  truth,’  says  Bouterwek,  ‘this  painstaking  man  was 
more  a writer  than  a Poet,  yet  not  altogether  without  talent 
in  that  latter  way.  Voluminous  enough,  at  least,  is  his  re- 
daction of  an  older  epic  work  on  the  War  of  Charlemagne  with 
the  Saracens  in  Spain,  the  old  German  original  of  which  is 
perhaps  nothing  more  than  a translation  from  the  Latin  or 
French.  Of  a Poet  in  the  Strieker’s  day,  when  the  romantic 
epos  had  attained  such  polish  among  the  Germans,  one  might 
have  expected  that  this  ancient  Fiction,  since  he  was  pleased 
to  remodel  it,  would  have  served  as  the  material  to  a new 
poetic  creation  ; or  at  least,  that  he  would  have  breathed  into 
it  some  new  and  more  poetic  spirit.  But  such  a develop- 
ment of  these  Charlemagne  Fables  was  reserved  for  the  Italian 
Poets.  The  Strieker  has  not  only  left  the  matter  of  the  old 
Tale  almost  unaltered,  but  has  even  brought  out  its  unpoet- 
ical  lineaments  in  stronger  light.  The  fanatical  piety  with 
which  it  is  overloaded  probably  appeared  to  him  its  chief 
merit.  To  convert  these  castaway  Heathens,  or  failing  this, 
to  annihilate  them,  Charlemagne  takes  the  field.  Next  to 
him,  the  hero  Roland  plays  a main  part  there.  Consultations 
are  held,  ambassadors  negotiate  ; war  breaks  out  with  all  its 
terrors  : the  Heathen  fight  stoutly  : at  length  comes  the  well- 
known  defeat  of  the  Franks  at  Ronceval,  or  Roncevaux ; 
where,  however,  the  Saracens  also  lose  so  many  men,  that 
their  King  Marsilies  dies  of  grief.  The  Narrative  is  divided 
into  chapters,  each  chapter  again  into  sections,  an  epitome  of 
which  is  always  given  at  the  outset.  Miracles  occur  in  the 
story,  but  for  most  part  only  such  as  tend  to  evince  how  God 
himself  inspirited  the  Christians  against  the  Heathen.  Of  any- 
thing like  free,  bold  flights  of  imagination  there  is  little  to  be 
met  with  : the  higher  features  of  the  genuine  romantic  epos 


18 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


are  altogether  wanting.  In  return,  it  has  a certain  didactic 
temper,  which,  indeed,  announces  itself  even  in  the  Introduc- 
tion. The  latter,  it  should  be  added,  prepossesses  us  in  the 
Poet’s  favour ; testifying  with  what  warm  interest  the  noble 
and  great  in  man’s  life  affected  him.’ 1 

The  Wdlsche  Gast  (Italian  Guest)  of  Zirkler  or  Tirkeler, 
who  professes,  truly  or  not,  to  be  from  Friuli,  and,  as  a be- 
nevolent stranger,  or  Guest,  tells  the  Germans  hard  truths 
somewhat  in  the  spirit  of  Juvenal  ; even  the  famous  Meister 
FriedavJc  (Master  Freethought),  with  his  wise  Book  of  rhymed 
Maxims,  entitled  Die  Bescheidenheit  (Modesty) ; still  more  the 
sagacious  Tyro,  King  of  Scots,  quite  omitted  in  history,  but 
who  teaches  Fnedebrand  his  Son,  with  some  discrimination, 
how  to  choose  a good  priest ; — all  these,  with  others  of  still 
thinner  substance,  rise  before  us  only  as  faint  shadows,  and 
must  not  linger  in  our  field  of  vision.  Greatly  the  most  im- 
portant figure  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  era  is  Hugo  von  Trim- 
berg,  to  whom  we  must  now  turn  ; author  of  various  poetico- 
preceptorial  works,  one  of  which,  named  the  Benner  (Runner), 
has  long  been  known  not  only  to  antiquarians,  but,  in  some 
small  degree,  even  to  the  general  reader.  Of  Hugo’s  Biog- 
raphy he  has  himself  incidentally  communicated  somewhat. 
His  surname  he  derives  from  Trimberg,  his  birthplace,  a vil- 
lage on  the  Saale,  not  far  from  Wurzburg,  in  Franconia.  By 
profession  he  appears  to  have  been  a Schoolmaster : in  the 
conclusion  of  his  Renner,  he  announces  that  ‘ he  kept  school 
for  forty  years  at  Thiirstadt,  near  Bamberg  ; ’ farther,  that 
his  Book  was  finished  in  1300,  which  date  he  confirms  by 
other  local  circumstances. 

Der  dies  Buck  gedichtet  hat, 

Vierzig  jar  vor  Bdbeiiberg, 

Der  pflag  der  schulen  zu  Thurstab 
Und  Mess  Hugo  von  Trymherg. 

1 Bouterwek,  ix.  245.  Other  versified  Narratives  by  this  worthy 
Strieker  still  exist,  hut  for  the  most  part  only  in  manuscript.  Of  these 
the  History  of  Wilhelm  von  Blumethal , a Round-table  adventurer,  ap- 
pears to  be  the  principal.  The  Poem  on  Charlemagne  stands  printed 
in  Schilter  s Thesaurus  ; its  exact  date  is  matter  only  of  conjecture. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


19 


Es  ward  follenbracht  das  1st  icahr, 

Da  tausent  und  dreyhundert  jar 
Nach  Ghristus  Geburt  vergangen  waren, 

Drithalbs  jar  gleich  vor  den  jaren 

Da  die  Juden  in  Franken  warden  erscTdagen. 

Bey  der  zeit  und  in  den  tagen, 

Da  bischoff  Leupolt  bischoff  was 
Zu  Babenberg. 

Some  have  supposed  that  the  Schoolmaster  dignity,  claimed 
here,  refers  not  to  actual  wielding  of  the  birch,  but  to  a 
Mastership  and  practise  of  instructing  in  the  art  of  Poetry, 
which  about  this  time  began  to  have  its  scholars  and  even 
guild  brethren,  as  the  feeble  remnants  of  Minn  e-sou  g gradu- 
ally took  the  new  shape,  in  which  we  afterwards  see  it,  of 
Meistergemny  (Master-song) : but  for  this  hypothesis,  so  plain 
are  Hugo’s  own  words,  there  seems  little  foundation.  It  is 
uncertain  whether  he  was  a clerical  personage,  certain  enough 
that  he  wras  not  a monk  : at  all  events,  he  must  have  been  a man 
of  reading  and  knowledge  ; industrious  in  study,  and  superior 
in  literary  acquirement  to  most  in  that  time.  By  a collateral 
account,  we  find  that  he  had  gathered  a library  of  two  hun- 
dred Books,  among  which  were  a whole  dozen  by  himself,  five 
in  Latin,  seven  in  German  ; hoping  that  by  means  of  these, 
and  the  furtherance  they  would  yield  in  the  pedagogic  craft, 
he  might  live  at  ease  in  his  old  days  ; in  which  hope,  however, 
he  had  been  disappointed  ; seeing,  as  himself  rather  feelingly 
complains,  ‘ no  one  now  cares  to  study  knowledge  ( Kunst ), 
which,  nevertheless,  deserves  honour  and  favour.’  What 
these  twelve  Books  of  Hugo’s  own  writing  were,  can,  for  most 
part,  only  be  conjectured.  Of  one,  entitled  the  Sammler  (Col- 
lector), he  himself  makes  mention  in  the  Renner  : he  had 
begun  it  above  thirty  years  before  this  latter  : but  having  by 
ill  accident  lost  great  part  of  his  manuscript,  abandoned  it  in 
anger.  Of  another  work  Flogel  has  discovered  the  following- 
notice  to  Johann  Wolf  : ‘ About  this  time  (1599)  did  that  virt- 
‘ uous  and  learned  nobleman,  Conrad  von  Liebenstein,  pre- 
‘ sent  to  me  a manuscript  of  Hugo  von  Trimberg,  who  flour- 
ished about  the  year  1300.  It.  sets  forth  the  shortcomings 


20 


EARL  Y GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


1 of  all  ranks,  and  especially  complains  of  the  clergy.  It  is 
‘ entitled  Reu  ins  Land  (Repentance  to  the  Land)  ; and  now 
‘ lies  with  the  Lord  of  Zillhart.’  1 The  other  ten  appear  to 
have  vanished  even  to  the  last  vestige. 

Such  is  the  whole  sum-total  of  information  which  the  assi- 
duity of  commentators  has  collected  touching  worthy  Hugo’s 
life  and  fortunes.  Pleasant  it  were  to  see  him  face  to  face  ; 
gladly  would  we  penetrate  through  that  long  vista  of  five 
hundred  years,  and  peep  into  his  hook-presses,  his  frugal  fire- 
side, his  noisy  mansion  with  its  disobedient  urchins,  now  that 
it  is  all  grown  so  silent : but  the  distance  is  too  far,  the  inter- 
vening'inedium  intercepts  our.  light  ; only  in  uncertain  fluc- 
tuating dusk,  will  Hugo  and  his  environment  appear  to  us. 
Nevertheless  Hugo,  as  he  had  in  Nature,  has  in  History,  an 
immortal  part : as  to  his  inward  man,  we  can  still  see  that  he 
was  no  mere  bookworm,  or  simple  Parson  Adams ; but  of 
most  observant  eye  ; shrewd,  inquiring,  considerate,  who  from 
his  Thiirstadt  school-chair,  as  from  a sedes  exploratoria,  had 
looked  abroad  into  the  world’s  business,  and  formed  his  own 
theory  about  many  things.  A cheerful,  gentle  heart  had  been 
given  him  ; a quiet,  sly  humour  ; light  to  see  beyond  the  gar- 
ments and  outer  hulls  of  Life  into  Life  itself : the  long-necked 
purse,  the  threadbare  gabardine,  the  languidly-simmering  pot 
of  his  pedagogic  household  establishment  were  a small  matter 
to  him  : he  was  a man  to  look  on  these  things  with  a meek 
.smile  ; to  nestle  down  quietly,  as  the  lark,  in  the  lowest  fur- 
row ; nay  to  mount  therefrom  singing,  and  soar  above  all 
mere  earthly  heights.  How  many  potentates,  and  principali- 
ties, and  proud  belligerents  have  evaporated  into  utter  ob- 
sivion,  while  the  poor  Thiirstadt  Schoolmaster  still  holds  to- 
gether ! 

This  Renner,  which  seems  to  be  his  final  work,  probably 
comprises  the  essence  of  all  those  lost  Volumes  ; and  indeed 
a synopsis  of  Hugo’s  whole  Philosophy  of  Life,  such  as  his 
two  hundred  Books  and  long  decades  of  quiet  observation 
and  reflection  had  taught  him.  Why  it  has  been  named  the 

1 Flogel  (iii.  15),  who  quotes  for  it  Wolf,  Lexicon  Memorab.  t.  ii.  p. 

1061. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


21 


Renner,  •whether  by  Hugo  himself,  or  by  some  witty  Editor 
and  Transcriber,  there  are  two  guesses  forthcoming,  and  no 
certain  reason.  One  guess  is,  that  this  Book  was  to  run  after 
the  lost  Tomes,  and  make  good  to  mankind  the  deficiency 
occasioned  by  want  of  them  ; which  happy-tliought,  hide- 
bound though  it  be,  might  have  seemed  sprightly  enough  to 
Hugo  and  that  age.  The  second  guess  is,  that  our  Author,  in 
the  same  style  of  easy  wit,  meant  to  say,  this  Book  must  hasten 
and  run  out  into  the  world,  and  do  him  a good  turn  quickly, 
while  it  was  yet  time,  he  being  so  very  old.  But  leaving  this, 
we  may  remark,  with  certainty  enough,  that  what  we  have 
left  of  Hugo  was  first  printed  under  this  title  of  Renner,  at 
Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  in  1519  ; and  quite  incorrectly,  being 
modernised  to  all  lengths,  and  often  without  .understanding 
of  the  sense  ; the  Edition  moreover  is  now  rare,  and  Lessing’s 
project  of  a new  one  did  not  take  effect ; so  that,  except  in 
Manuscripts,  of  which  there  are  many,  and  in  printed  Extracts, 
which  also  are  numerous,  the  Renner  is  to  most  readers  a 
sealed  book. 

In  regard  to  its  literary  merit  opinions  seem  to  be  nearly 
unanimous.  The  highest  merit,  that  of  poetical  unity,  or  even 
the  lower  merit  of  logical  unity,  is  not  ascribed  to  it  by  the 
warmest  panegyrist.  Apparently  this  work  had  been  a sort 
of  store-chest,  wherein  the  good  Hug-o  had,  from  time  to  time, 
deposited  the  fruits  of  his  meditation  as  they  chanced  to  ripen 
for  him  ; here  a little,  and  there  a little,  in  all  varieties  of. 
kind  ; till  the  chest  being  filled,  or  the  fruits  nearly  exhausted, 
it  was  sent  forth  and  published  to  the  world,  by  the  easy  pro- 
cess of  turning  up  the  bottom. 

‘ No  theme,’  says  Bouterwek,  ‘ leads  with  certainty  to  the 
other : satirical  descriptions,  proverbs,  fables,  jests  and  other 
narratives,  all  huddled  together  at  random,  to  teach  us  in  a 
poetical  way  a series  of  moral  lessons.  A strained  and  frosty 
Allegory  opens  the  work  ; then  follow  the  Chapters  of  Meyden 
(Maids)  ; of  Wicked  Masters  ; of  Pages ; of  Priests,  Monks 
and  Friars,  with  great  minuteness  ; then  of  a Young  Minx  with 
an  Old  Man  ; then  of  Bad  Landlords,  and  of  Bobbers.  Next 
come  divers  Virtues  and  Vices,  all  painted  out,  and  judged  of 


22 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Towards  the  end,  there  follows  a sort  of  Moral  Natural  His- 
tory ; Considerations  on  the  dispositions  of  various  Animals  ; 
a little  Botany  and  Physiology ; then  again  all  manner  of 
didactic  Narratives  ; and  finally  a Meditation  on  the  Last  Day.5 

Whereby  it  would  appear  clearly,  as  hinted,  that  Hugo’s 
Renner  pursues  no  straight  course  ; and  only  through  the 
most  labyrinthic  mazes,  here  wandering  in  deep  thickets,  or 
even  sinking  in  moist  bogs,  there  panting  over  mountain-tops 
by  narrow  sheep-tracks  ; but  for  most  part  jigging  lightly  on 
sunny  greens,  accomplishes  his  wonderful  journey. 

Nevertheless,  as  we  ourselves  can  testify,  there  is  a certain 
charm  in  the  worthy  man  ; his  Work,  such  as  it  is,  seems  to 
flow  direct  from  the  heart,  in  natural,  spontaneous  abundance  ; 
is  at  once  cheerful  and  earnest ; his  own  simple,  honest,  mildly 
decided  character  is  everywhere  visible.  Besides  Hugo,  as 
we  said,  is  a person  of  understanding  ; has  looked  over  many 
provinces  of  Life,  not  without  insight ; in  his  quiet,  sly  way, 
can  speak  forth  a shrewd  word  on  occasion.  There  is  a gen- 
uine though  slender  vein  of  Humour  in  him  ; nor  in  his  satire 
does  he  ever  lose  temper,  but  rebukes  sportfully  ; not  indeed 
laughing  aloud,  scarcely  even  sardonically  smiling,  yet  with 
a certain  subdued  roguery  and  patriarchal  knowingness. 
His  fancy  too,  if  not  brilliant,  is  copious  almost  beyond 
measure  ; no  end  to  his  crotchets,  suppositions,  minute  speci- 
fications. Withal  he  is  original : his  maxims,  even  when  pro- 
fessedly borrowed,  have  passed  through  the  test  of  his  own 
experience  ; all  carries  in  it  some  stamp  of  his  personality. 
Thus  the  Renner,  though  in  its  whole  extent  perhaps  too  bound- 
less and  planless  for  ordinary  nerves,  makes  in  the  fragmentary 
state  no  unpleasant  reading  : that  old  doggerel  is  not  with- 
out significance  ; often  in  its  straggling,  broken,  entangled 
strokes  some  vivid  antique  picture  is  strangely  brought  out 
for  us. 

As  a specimen  of  Hugo’s  general  manner,  we  select  a small 
portion  of  his  Chapter  on  The  Maidens  ; that  passage  where 
he  treats  of  the  highest  enterprise  a maiden  can  engage  in, 
the  choosing  of  a husband.  It  wall  be  seen  at  once  that  Hugo 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


23 


is  no  Minnesinger,  glozing  his  fair  audience  with  madrigals 
and  hypocritical  gallantry  ; but  a quiet  National  Historian, 
reporting  such  facts  as  he  finds,  in  perfect  good  nature,  it  is 
true,  yet  not  without  an  undercurrent  of  satirical  humour. 
His  quaint  style  of  thought,  his  garrulous  minuteness  of  de- 
tail are  partly  apparent  here.  The  first  few  lines  we  may  give 
in  the  original  also  ; not  as  they  stand  in  the  Frankfort  Edi- 
tion, but  as  professing  to  derive  themselves  from  a genuine 
ancient  source : 

Kortzyn  mut  und  lange  liaur 
lian  die  meyde  mnderbar 
dy  zu  yren  jar en  kammen  synt 
dy  wal  machen  yn  daz  hertze  blynt 
dy  auchgn  icysen  yn  den  weg 
wn  den  auchgn  get  eyn  steg 
tzu  dem  hertzen  nit  gar  lang 
vff  deine  stege  ist  vyl  mannig  gedang 
wen  sy  icoln  nemen  oder  nit. 1 

Short  of  sense  and  long  of  hair, 

Strange  enough  the  maidens  are  ; 

Once  they  to  their  teens  have  got, 

Such  a choosing,  this  or  that : 

Eyes  they  have  that  ever  spy, 

From  the  Eyes  a Path  doth  lie 
To  the  Heart,  and  is  not  long, 

Hereon  travel  thoughts  a throng, 

Which  one  they  will  have  or  not. 

‘ Woe’s  me,’  continues  Hugo,  ‘ how  often  this  same  is  re- 
peated, till  they  grow  all  confused  how  to  choose,  from  so- 
many,  whom  they  have  brought  in  without  number.  First 
they  bethink  them  so  : This  one  is  short,  that  one  is  long  ; 
he  is  courtly  and  old,  the  other  young  and  ill-favoured  ; this 
is  lean,  that  is  bald  ; here  is  one  fat,  there  one  thin  ; this  is 
noble,  that  is  weak  ; he  never  yet  broke  a spear  : one  is  white, 
another  black  ; that  other  is  named  Master  Hack  ( hartz ) ; this 
is  pale,  that  again  is  red  ; he  seldom  eateth  cheerful  bread  ; ’ 

and  so  on,  through  endless  other  varieties,  in  new-  streams  of 
soft-murmuring  doggerel,  whereon,  as  on  the  Path  it  would 
1 Horn,  Geschidhte  und  Kritik  der  deutschen  Poesie,  s.  44. 


24 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


represent,  do  travel  thoughts  a throng,  which  one  these  fair 
irresolutes  will  have  or  not. 

Thus,  for  Hugo,  the  age  of  Minstrelsy  is  gone : not  soft 
Love-ditties,  and  hymns  of  Lady-worship,  hut  sceptical  criti- 
cism, importunate  animadversion,  not  without  a shade  of  mock- 
ery, will  he  indite.  The  age  of  Chivalry  is  gone  also.  To  a 
Schoolmaster,  with  empty  larder,  the  pomp  of  tournaments 
could  never  have  been  specially  interesting  ; but  now  such 
passages  of  arms,  how  free  and  gallant  soever,  appear  to  him 
no  other  than  the  probable  product  of  delirium.  ‘ God  might 
‘ well  laugh,  could  it  be,’  says  he,  1 to  see  his  mannikins  live  so 
* wondrously  on  this  Earth  : two  of  them  will  take  to  fighting, 
‘ and  nowise  let  it  alone  ; nothing  serves  but  with  two  long 
£ spear  they  must  ride  and  stick  at  one  another : greatly  to 
‘ then  hurt ; for  when  one  is  by  the  other  skewered  through 
1 the  bowels  or  through  the  weasand,  he  hath  small  pi'ofit  there- 
‘ by.  But  who  forced  them  to  such  straits  ? ’ The  answer  is 
too  plain  : some  modification  of  Insanity.  Hay,  so  contemptu- 
ous is  Hugo  of  all  chivalrous  things,  that  he  openly  grudges 
any  time  spent  in  reading  of  them  ; in  Don  Quixote’s  Library 
he  would  have  made  short  work  : 

How  Master  Dietricli  fouglit  with  Ecken, 

And  how  or  old  the  stalwart  Recken 
Were  all  by  women’s  craft  betrayed  : 

Such  things  you  oft  hear  sung  and  said, 

And  wept  at,  like  a case  of  sorrow  ; — 

Of  our  own  Sins  we’ll  think  to-morrow. 

This  last  is  one  of  Hugo's  darker  strokes  ; for  commonly, 
though  moral  perfection  is  ever  the  one  thing  needful  with 
him,  he  preaches  in  a quite  cheerful  tone  ; nay,  ever  and 
anon,  enlivens  us  with  some  timely  joke.  Considerable  part, 
and  apparently  much  the#  best  part,  of  his  work  is  occupied 
with  satirical  Fables,  and  Schwanke  (jests,  comic  tales)  ; of 
which  latter  class  we  have  seen  some  possessing  true  humour, 
and  the  simplicity  which  is  then  next  merit.  These,  how- 
ever, we  must  wholly  omit  ; and  indeed,  without  farther  par- 
leying, here  part  company  with  Hugo.  We  leave  him,  not 
without  esteem,  and  a touch  of  affection,  due  to  one  so  true- 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


25 


hearted,  and,  under  that  old  huruble  guise,  so  gifted  with  in- 
tellectual talent.  Safely  enough  may  be  conceded  him  the 
_ dignity  of  chief  moral  Poet  of  his  time  ; nay  perhaps,  for  his 
solid  character,  and  modest  maul}-  ways,  a much  higher  dig- 
nity. Though  his  Book  can  no  longer  be  considered,  what 
the  Frankfort  Editor  describes  it  in  his  interminable  title- 
page,  as  a universal  vade-mecum  for  mankind,  it  is  still  ‘ so 
adorned  with  many  fine  sayings,’  and  in  itself  of  so  curious  a 
texture,  that  it  seems  well  worth  preserving.  A proper  Edi- 
tion of  the  Renner  will  one  day  doubtless  make  its  appearance 
among  the  Germans.  Hugo  is  farther  remarkable  as  the  pre- 
cursor and  prototype  of  Sebastian  Brandt,  whose  Narrenschiff 
(Ship  of  Fools)  has,  with  perhaps  less  merit,  had  infinitely 
better  fortune  than  the  Renner. 

Some  half  century  later  in  date,  and  no  less  didactic  in 
character  than  Hugo’s  Renner,  another  Work,  still  rising 
visible  above  the  level  of  those  times,  demands  some  notice 
from  us.  This  is  the  Edelstein  (Gem)  of  Bonerius  or  Boner, 
which  at  one  time,  to  judge  by  the  number  of  Manuscripts, 
whereof  fourteen  are  still  in  existence,  must  have  enjoyed 
great  popularity  ; and  indeed,  after  long  years  of  oblivion,  it 
has,  by  recent  critics  and  redactors,  been  again  brought  into 
some  circulation.  Boner’s  Gem  is  a collection  of  a Hundred 
Fables  done  into  German  rhyme  ; and  derives  its  proud  des- 
ignation not  more  perhaps  from  the  supposed  excellence  of 
the  work,  than  from  a witty  allusion  to  the  title  of  Fable  First, 
which,  in  the  chief  Manuscript,  chances  to  be  that  well-known 
one  of  the  Cock  scraping  for  Barleycorns,  and  finding  instead 
thereof  a precious  stone  ( Edelstein ) or  Gem  : Von  einem  Eanen 
und  dem  edelen  Steine  ; whereupon  the  author,  or  some  kind 
friend,  remarks  in  a sort  of  Prologue  : 

Lies  Buclilein  mag  der  Edelstein 

Wol  heiszen,  wand  es  in  treit  {in  sick  trdgf) 

Biscltaft  {Beispiel)  manger  Jduogheit. 

‘ This  Bookling  may  well  be  called  the  Gem,  sith  it  includes 
examples  of  many  a prudence  ; ’ — which  name,  accordingly  as 
we  see,  it  bears  even  to  this  day. 


26 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Boner  and  Ms  Fables  have  given  rise  to  much  discussion 
among  the  Germans  : scattered  at  short  distances  throughout 
the  last  hundred  years,  there  is  a series  of  Selections,  Edi- 
tions, Translations,  Critical  Disquisitions,  some  of  them  in 
the  shape  of  Academic  Program  ; among  the  labourers  in 
which  enterprise  we  find  such  men  as  Gellert  and  Lessing. 
A Bonerii  Gemma,  or  Latin  version  of  the  work,  was  pub- 
lished by  Oberlin,  in  1782  ; Eschenburg  sent  forth  an  Edition 
in  modern  German,  in  1810  ; Benecke  a reprint  of  the  an- 
tique original,  in  1816.  So  that  now  a faithful  duty  has  been 
done  to  Boner  ; and  what  with  bibliographical  in  quiries,  what 
with  vocabularies,  and  learned  collations  of  texts,  he  that  runs 
may  read  whatever  stands  written  in  the  Gem. 

Of  these  diligent  lucubrations,  with  which  we  strangers  are 
only  in  a remote  degree  concerned,  it  will  be  sufficient  here 
to  report  in  few  words  the  main  results, — not  indeed  very 
difficult  to  report.  First  then,  with  regard  to  Boner  himself, 
we  have  to  say  that  nothing  whatever  has  been  discovered  : 
who,  when,  or  what  that  worthy  moralist  was,  remains,  and 
may  always  remain, ' entirely  uncertain.  It  is  merely  con- 
jectured, from  the  dialect,  and  other  more  minute  indications, 
that  his  place  of  abode  was  the  northwest  quarter  of  Switzer- 
land ; with  still  higher  probability,  that  he  lived  about  the 
middle  of  the  fourteenth  century ; from' his  learning  and  de- 
vout pacific  temper,  some  have  inferred  that  he  was  a monk 
or  priest ; however,  in  one  Manuscript  of  his  Gem,  he  is 
designated,  apparently  by  some  ignorant  Transcriber,  a knight, 
ein  Ritter  gotz  alsus : from  all  which,  as  above  said,  our  only 
conclusion  is,  that  nothing  can  be  concluded. 

Johann  Scherz,  about  the  year  1710,  in  what  he  called 
Philosophies  moralis  Germanorum  medii  ceci  Specimen,  sent 
forth  certain  of  these  Fables,  with  expositions,  but  appar- 
ently without  naming  the  Author  ; to  which  Specimen  Gellert 
in  his  Dissertatio  de  Poesi  Apologoruni  had  again,  some  forty 
years  afterwards,  invited  attention.  Nevertheless,  so  total 
was  the  obscurity  which  Boner  had  fallen  into,  that  Bodmer, 
already  known  as  the  resuscitator  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  in 
printing  the  Edcldein  from  an  old  Manuscript,  in  1752,  mis- 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


27 


took  its  probable  date  by  about  a century,  and  gave  his  work 
the  title  of  Fables  from  the  Minnesinger  Period ,'  without  nam-- 
ing  the  Fabulist,  or  guessing  whether  there  were  one  or 
many.  In  this  condition  stood  the  matter,  when  several  years 
afterwards,  Lessing,  pursuing  another  inquiry,  -came  across 
the  track  of  this  Boner ; was  allured  into  it ; proceeded  to 
clear  it ; and  moving  briskly  forward,  with  a sure  eye  and 
sharp  critical  axe,  hewed  away  innumerable  entanglements  ; 
and  so  opened  out  a free  avenue  and  vista,  where  strangely, 
in  remote  depth  of  antiquarian  wroods,  the  whole  ancient 
Fable-manufactory,  with  Boner  and  many  others  working  in 
it,  becomes  visible,  in  all  the  light  which  probably  will  ever 
be  admitted  to  it.  He  who  has  perplexed  himself  with  Rom- 
ulus and  Rimicius,  and  Nevelet's  Anonymus,  and  Aviahus,  and 
still  more,  with  the  false  guidance  of  their  many  commenta- 
tors, will  find  help  and  deliverance  in  this  light,  thorough- 
going Inquiry  of  Lessing’s.2 

Now,  therefore,  it  became  apparent : first,  that  those  sup- 
posed Fables  from  the  Minnesinger  Period,  of  Bodmer,  were 
in  truth  written  by  one  Boner,  in  quite  another  Period  ; 
secondly,  that  Boner  was  not  properly  the  author  of  them, 
but  the  borrower  and  free  versifier  from  certain  Latin  origi- 
nals ; farther,  that  the  real  title  Avas  Edelstein  ; and  strangest 
of  all,  that  the  work  had  been  printed  three  centuries  before 
Bodmer’s  time,  namely,  at  Bamberg,  in  1461  ; of  wdiich  Edi- 
tion, indeed,  a tattered  copy,  typographically  curious,  lay  and 
probably  lies,  in  the  ’Wolfenbiittel  Library,  where  Lessing 
then  waited,  and  wrote.  The  other  discoveries,  touching 
Boner’s  personality  and  locality,  are  but  conjectures,  due  also 
to  Lessing,  and  have  been  stated  already. 

As  to  the  Gem  itself,  about  which  there  has  been  such 
scrambling,  we  may  say,  noAV  when  it  is  cleaned  and  laid  out 
before  us,  that,  though  but  a small  seed-pearl,  it  has  a gen- 
uine value.  To  us  Boner  is  interesting  by  his  antiquity,  as 

1 Koch  also,  with  a strange  deviation  from  his  usual  accuracy,  dates 
Boner,  in  one  place,  1220  ; and  in  another,  1 towards  the  latter  half  of 
the  fourteenth  century.  ’ See  his  Compendium , pp.  28  and  200,  vol.  i. 

2 Sdmmttiche  Schriften , h.  viii. 


28 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


the  speaking  -witness  of  many  long-past  things  ; to  his  con- 
temporaries again  he  must  have  been  still  more  interesting 
as  the  reporter  of  so  many  new  things.  These  Fables  of  his, 
then  for  the  first  time  rendered  out  of  inaccessible  Latin  1 
into  German  metre,  contain  no  little  edifying  matter,  had 
we  not  known  it  before  ; our  old  friends,  the  Fox  with  the 
musical  Raven  ; the  Man  and  Boy  taking  their  Ass  to  mar- 
ket, and  so  inadequate  to  please  the  public  in  their  method 
of  transporting  him  ; the  Bishop  that  gave  his  Nephew  a 
Cure  of  Souls,  but  durst  not  trust  him  with  a Basket  of  Pears  ; 
all  these  and  many  more  figure  here.  But  apart  from  the 
material  of  his  Fables,  Boner’s  style  and  manner  has  an  abid- 
ing merit.  He  is  not  so  much  a Translator  as  a free  Imitator  : 
he  tells  the  story  in  his ^ own  way  ; appends  his  own  moral, 
and,  except  that  in  the  latter  department  he  is  apt  to  be  a 
little  prolix,  acquits  himself  to  high  satisfaction.  His  narra- 
tive, in  those  old  limping  rhymes,  is  cunningly  enough  brought 
out  : artless,  lively,  graphic,  with  a spicing  of  innocent  hu- 
mour, a certain  childlike  archness,  which  is  the  chief  merit  of 
a Fable.  Such  is  the  German  dEsop  ; a-  character  whom  in 
the  northwest  district  of  Switzerland,  at  that  time  of  day,  we 
should  hardly  have  looked  for. 

Could  we  hope  that  to  many  of  our  readers  the  old  rough 
dialect  of  Boner  would  be  intelligible,  it  were  easy  to  vindi- 

1 The  two  originals  to  whom  Lessing  has  traced  all  his  Fables  are  Aci- 
anus  and  N evelet’s  Anonymus ; concerning  which  personages  the  fol- 
lowing brief  notice  by  Jordens  ( Lexicon , i.  161)  may  be  inserted  here  : 
‘ Flavius  Avianus  (who  must  not  be  confounded  with  another  Latin 
‘ Poet,  Avienus)  lived,  as  is  believed,  under  the  two  Antonines  in  the 
‘second  century:  he  has  left  us  forty-two  Fables  in  elegiac  measure,  the 
‘ best  Editions  of  which  are  that  by  Kannegiesser  (Amsterdam,  1731), 
‘that  by’  &c.  &e.  With  respect  to  the  Anonymus  again:  ‘Under  this 
‘ designation  is  understood  the  half-barbarous  Latin  Poet,  whose  sixty 
‘ Fables,  in  elegiac  measure,  stand  in  the  collection,  which  Xevelet, 
‘ under  the  title  Mytliologia  AEsopica , published  at  Frankfort  in  1610, 
‘ and  which  directly  follow  those  of  Avianus  in  that  work.  They  are 
‘ nothing  else  than  versified  translations  of  the  Fables  written  in  prose  by 
‘ Romulus,  a noted  Fabulist,  whose  era  cannot  be  fixed,  nor  even  his 
‘ name  made  out  to  complete  satisfaction.’. — The  reader  who  wants  deepei 
insight  into  these  matters  may  consult  Lessing,  as  cited  above. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


29 


cate  these  praises.  As  matters  stand,  we  can  only  venture  on 
one  translated  specimen,  which  in  this  shape  claims  much  al- 
lowance ; the  Fable,  also,  is  nowise  the  best,  or  perhaps  the 
worst,  but  simply  one  of  the  shortest.  For  the  rest,  we  have 
rendered  the  old  doggerel  into  new,  with  all  possible  fidelity : 

THE  FROG  AND  THE  STEER. 

Qf  him  that  striveth  after  more  honour  than  lie  should. 

A Frog  with  Frogling  by  his  side 

Came  hopping  through  the  plain,  one  tide : 

There  he  an  Os  at  grass  did  spy, 

Much  anger’d  was  the  Frog  thereby ; 

He  said  : “ Lord  God,  what  was  my  sin 
Thou  madest  me  so  small  and  thin  ? 

Likewise  I have  no  handsome  feature, 

And  all  dishonoured  is  my  nature, 

To  other  creatures  far  and  near, 

For  instance,  this  same  grazing  Steer.” 

The  Frog  would  fain  with  Bullock  cope, 

’Gan  brisk  outblow  himself  in  hope. 

Then  spake  his  Frogling : “ Father  o’  me, 

It  boots  not,  let  thy  blowing  be  ; 

Thy  nature  hath  forbid  this  battle, 

Thou  canst  not  vie  with  the  black-cattle.” 

Natliless  let  be  the  Frog  would  not, 

Such  prideful  notion  had  he  got ; 

Again  to  blow  right  sore  ’gan  he, 

And  said : “ Like  Ox  could  I but  be 
In  size,  within  this  world  there  were 
No  Frog  so  glad,  to  thee  I sweai\” 

The  Son  spake  : “Father,  me  is  woe 
Thou  shouldst  torment  tliy  body  so, 

I fear  thou  art  to  lose  thy  life ; 

Come  follow  me  and  leave  this  strife  ; 

Good  Father,  take  advice  of  me, 

And  let  thy  boastful  blowing  be.” 

Frog  said  : “ Thou  need’st  not  beck  and  nod. 

I will  not  do’t.  so  help  me  God ; 

Big  as  this  Ox  is  I must  turn, 

Mine  honour  now  it  doth  concern.” 

He  blew  himself,  and  burst  in  twain, 

Such  of  that  blowing  was  his  gain. 


30 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


The  like  hath  oft  been  seen  of  such 
Who  grasp  at  honour  overmuch  ; 

They  must  with  none  at  all  he  doing, 

But  sink  full  soon  and  come  to  ruin. 

He  that,  with  wind  of  Pride  accurs’d, 

Much  puffs  himself,  will  surely  hurst ; 

He  men  miswislies  and  misjudges, 

Inferiors  scorns,  superiors  grudges. 

Of  all  his  equals  is  a hater, 

Much  griev’d  he  is  at  any  better  ; 

Wherefore  it  were  a sentence  wise 
Were  his  whole  hod}-  set  with  Eyes, 

Who  envy  hath,  to  see  so  well 
What  lucky  hap  each  man  befell, 

That  so  he  filled  were  with  fury. 

And  hurst  asunder  in  a hurry  ; 

And  so  full  soon  betid  him  this 
Which  to  the  Frog  hetided  is. 

Readers  to  whom  such  stinted  twanging  of  the  true  Poetic 
Lyre,  such  cheerful  fingering,  though  only  of  one  and  its 
lowest  string,  has  any  melody,  may  find  enough  of  it  in  Be- 
necke’s  Boner,  a reproduction,  as  above  stated,  of  the  original 

Edelstein  ; which  Edition  we  are  authorised  to  recommend  as 

♦ 

furnished  with  all  helps  for  such  a study : less  adventurous 
readers  may  still,  from  Eschenburg’s  half-modernised  Edition, 
derive  some  contentment  and  insight. 

Hugo  von  Trimberg  and  Boner,  who  stand  out  here  as  our 
chief  Literary  representatives  of  the  Fourteenth  Century, 
could  play  no  such  pari  in  them  own  day,  when  the  great 
men,  who  shone  in  the  world’s  eye,  were  Theologians  and 
Jurists,  Politicians  at  the  Imperial  Diet ; at  best  Professors 
in  the  new  Universities  ; of  whom  all  memory  has  long  since 
perished.  So  different  is  universal  from  temporary  impor- 
tance, and  worth  belonging  to  our  manhood  from  that  merely 
of  our  station  or  calling.  Nevertheless,  as  every  writer,  of 
any  true  gifts,  is  ‘ citizen  both  of  his  time  and  of  his  country,’ 
and  the  more  completely  the  greater  his  gifts  ; so  in  the  works 
of  these  two  secluded  individuals,  the  characteristic  tenden- 
cies and  spirit  of  their  age  may  best  be  discerned. 

Accordingly,  in  studying  then-  commentators,  one  fact  that 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


31 


cannot  but  strike  us  is,  the  great  prevalence  and  currency 
which  this  species  of  Literature,  cultivated  by  them,  had  ob- 
tained in  that  era.  Of  Fable  Literature  especially,  this  was 
the  summer-tide  and  highest  efflorescence.  The  Latin  origi- 
nals which  Boner  partly  drew  from,  descending,  with  manifold 
transformations  and  additions,  out  of  classical  times,  were  in 
the  hands  of  the  learned ; in  the  living  memories  of  the  people 
were  numerous  fragments  of  primeval  Oriental  Fable,  derived 
perhaps  through  Palestine  ; from  which  two  sources,  curiously 
intermingled,  a whole  stream  of  Fables  evolved  itself ; whereat 
the  morally  athirst,  such  was  the  genius  of  that  time,  were 
not  slow  to  drink.  Boner,  as  we  have  seen,  worked  in  a field 
then  zealously  cultivated : nay,  was  not  2Esop  himself,  what 
we  have  for  fEsog,  a contemporary  of  his  ; the  Greek  Monk 
Plumules  and  the  Swiss  Monk  Boner  might  be  chanting  their 
Psalter  at  one  and  the  same  hour  ! 

Fable,  indeed,  may  be  regarded  as  the  earliest  and  simplest 
product  of  Didactic  Poetry,  the  first  attempt  of  Instruction 
clothing  itself  in  Fancy  : hence  the  antiquity  of  Fables,  their 
universal  diffusion  in  the  childhood  of  nations,  so  that  they 
have  become  a common  property  of  all : hence  also  their  ac- 
ceptance and  diligent  culture  among  the  Germans,  among  the 
Europeans,  in  this  the  first  stage  of  an  era  when  the  whole 
bent  of  Literature  was  Didactic.  But  the  Fourteenth  Century 
Avas  the  age  of  Fable  in  a still  wider  sense:  it  was  the  age 
AA'hen  whatever  Poetry  there  remained  took  the  shape  of 
Apologue  and  moral  Fiction  : the  higher  spirit  of  Imagination 
had  died  aAvay,  or  withdrawn  itself  into  Religion  ; the  lower 
and  feebler  not  only  took  continual  counsel  of  Understanding, 
but  was  content  to  Avalk  in  its  leading-strings.  Now  was  the 
time  Avhen  human  life  and  its  relations  were  looked  at  Avith 
an  earnest  practical  eye  ; and  the  moral  perplexities  that  occur 
there,  when  man,  hemmed-in  between  the  Mould  and  the 
Should,  or  the  Must,  painfully  hesitates,  or  altogether  sinks 
in  that  collision,  were  not  only  set  forth  in  the  way  of  precept, 
but  embodied,  for  still  clearer  instruction,  in  Examples,  and 
edifying  Fictions.  The  Monks  themselves,  such  of  them  as 
had  any  talent,  meditated  and  taught  in  this  fashion : witness 


32 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


that  strange  Gesta  Romanorkm,  still  extant,  and  once  familiar 
over  all  Europe  ; — a Collection  of  Moral  Tales,  expressly  devised 
for  the  use  of  Preachers,  though  only  the  Shakspeares,  and  in 
subsequent  times,  turned  it  to  right  purpose. 1 These  and  the 
like  old  Gests,  with  most  of  which  the  Romans  had  so  little  to 
do,  were  the  staple  Literature  of  that  period  ; cultivated  with 
great  assiduity,  and  so  far  as  mere  invention,  or  compilation, 
of  incident  goes,  with  no  little  merit  ; for  already  almost  all 
the  grand  destinies,  and  fundamental  ever-recurring  entangle- 
ments of  human  life,  are  laid  hold  of  and  depicted  here ; so 
that,  from  the  first,  our  modern  Novelists  and  Dramatists 
could  find  nothing  new  under  the  sun,  but  everywhere,  in 
contrivance  of  then’  Story,  saw  themselves  forestalled.  The 
boundless  abundance  of  Narratives  then  current,  the  singular 
derivations  and  transmigrations  of  these,  surprise  antiquarian 
commentators  : but,  indeed,  it  was  in  this  same  century  that 
Boccaccio,  refining  the  gold  from  that  so  copious  dross,  pro- 
duced his  Decamerone,  which  still  indicates  the  same  fact  in 
more  pleasant  fashion,  to  all  readers.  That  in  these  universal 
tendencies  of  the  time  the  Germans  participated  and  cooper- 
ated, Boner’s  Fables,  and  Hugo’s  many  Narrations,  seiious 
and  comic,  may,  like  two  specimens  from  a great  multitude, 
point  out  to  us.  The  Madrigal  had  passed  into  the  Apologue  ; 
the  Heroic  Poem,  with  its  supernatural  machinery  and  senti- 
ment, into  the  Fiction  of  practical  Life in  which  latter  spe- 
cies a prophetic  eye  might  have  discerned  the  coming  Tom 
Joneses  and  Wilhelm  Meisters ; and  with  still  more  astonish- 
ment, the  Minerva  Presses  of  all  nations,  and  this  then-  huge 
transit-trade  in  Bags,  all  lifted  from  the  dunghill,  printed  on, 
and  returned  thither,  to  the  comfort  of  parties  interested. 

The  Drama,  as  is  well  known,  had  an  equally  Didactic 
origin ; namely,  in  those  Mysteries  contrived  by  the  clergy 
for  bringing  home  religious  truth,  with  new  force,  to  the  uni- 
versal comprehension.  That  this  cunning  device  had  already 
found  its  way  into  Germany,  we  have  proof  in  a document 
too  curious  to  be  omitted  here  : 

1 See  an  account  of  this  curious  Book  in  Douce's  learned  and  ingen- 
ious Illustrations  of  Shakspeure. 


EARL  7 GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


33 


‘ In  the  year  1322,  there  was  a play  shown  at  Eisenach, 
which  hacl  a tragical  enough  effect.  Markgrat  Friedrich  of 
Misnia,  Landgraf  also  of  Thuringia,  having  brought  his 
tedious  warfares  to  a conclusion,  and  the  country  beginning 
now  to  revive  under  peace,  his  subjects  were  busy  repaying 
themselves  for  the  past  distresses  by  all  manner  of  diversions  ; 
to  which  end,  apparently  by  the  Sovereign’s  order,  a dramatic 
representation  of  the  Ten  Virgins  was  schemed,  and  at 
Eisenach,  in  his  presence,  duly  executed.  This  happened 
fifteen  days  after  Easter,  by  indulgence  of  the  Preaching 
Friars.  In  the  Chronicon  Sampetrinam  stands  recorded  that 
the  play  was  enacted  in  the  Bear-garden  (in  hortu  ferarum ), 
by  the  clergy  and  their  scholars.  But  now,  when  it  came  to 
pass  that  the  Wise  Virgins  would  give  the  Foolish  no  oil,  and 
these  latter  were  shut  out  from  the  Bridegroom,  they  began 
to  weep  bitterly,  and  called  on  the  Saints  to  intercede  for 
them  ; who,  however,  even  with  Mary  at  their  head,  could 
effect  nothing  from  God  ; but  the  Foolish  Virgins  wTere  all 
sentenced  to  damnation.  W'hich  things  the  Landgraf  seeing 
and  hearing,  he  fell  into  a doubt,  and  was  very  angry  ; and 
said,  “ What  then  is  the  Christian  Faith,  if  God  will  not  take 
pity  on  us,  for  intercession  of  Mary  and  all  the  Saints  ? ” In 
this  anger  he  continued  five  days  ; and  the  learned  men  could 
hardly  enlighten  him  to  understand  the  Gospel.  Thereupon 
he  was  struck  with  apoplexy,  and  became  speechless  and 
powerless  ; in  which  sad  state  he  continued  bed-rid,  two 
years  and  seven  months,  and  so  died,  being  then  fifty-five. 1 

Surely  a serious  warning,  would  they  but  take  it,  to  Dra- 
matic Critics,  not  to  venture  beyond  their  depth ! Had  this 
fiery  old  Landgraf  given  up  the  reins  of  his  imagination  into 
his  author’s  hands,  he  might  have  been  pleased  he  knew  not 
why  : whereas  the  meshes  of  Theology,  in  which  he  kicks  and 
struggles,  here  strangle  the  life  out  of  him  ; and  the  Ten 
Virgins  at  Eisenach  are  more  fatal  to  warlike  men  than 
iEschylus’s  Furies  at  Athens  were  to  weak  women. 

Neither  were  the  unlearned  People  without  their  Litera- 
ture, their  Narrative  Poetry  ; though  how,  in  an  age  with- 
out printing  and  bookstalls,  it  was  circulated  among  them  ; 

i Flogel  ( Geschichte  der  komwclcin  Litteratur,  iv.  287),  who  founds  on 
that  old  Chronicon  Sampetrinum  Eif  wtense,  contained  in  Menke’s  Col- 
lection. 


3 


34 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


whether  by  strolling  Fideleres  (Minstrels),  who  might  recite 
as  well  as  fiddle,  or  by  other  methods,  we  have  not  learned. 
However,  its  existence  and  .abundance  in  this  era  is  suffi- 
ciently evinced  by  the  multitude  of  Volksbucher  (People’s- 
Books)  which  issued  from  the  Press,  next  century,  almost  as 
soon  as  there  was  a Press.  Several  of  these,  which  still 
languidly  survive  among  the  people,  or  at  least  the  children, 
of  all  countries,  were  of  German  composition  ; of  most,  so 
strangely  had  they  been  sifted  and  winnowed  to  and  fro,  it 
was  impossible  to  fix  the  origin.  But  borrowed  or  domestic, 
they  nowhere  wanted  admirers  in  Germany : the  Patient 
Helena,  the  Fair  Magelone,  Bluebeard,  Fortunatus ; these,  and 
afterwards  the  Seven  Wise  Masters,  with  other  more  directly 
dEsopic  ware,  to  which  the  introduction  of  the  old  Indian 
stock,  or  Book  of  Wisdom,  translated  from  John  of  Capua’s 
Latin,1  one  day  formed  a inch  accession,  were  in  all  memories 
and  on  all  tongues. 

Beautiful  traits  of  Imagination  and  a pure  genuine  feeling, 
though  under  the  rudest  forms,  shine  forth  in  some  of  these 
old  Tales : for  instance,  in  Magelone  and  Fortunatus  ; which 
two,  indeed,  with  others  of  a different  stamp,  Ludwig  Tieck 
has,  with  singular  talent,  ventured,  not  unsuccessfully,  to 
reproduce  in  our  own  time  and  dialect.  A second  class  dis- 
tinguish themselves  by  a homely,  honest-hearted  Wisdom,  full 
of  character  and  quaint  devices ; of  which  class  the  Seven 
Wise  Masters,  extracted  chiefly  from  that  Gesta  Romanorum 
above  mentioned,  and  containing  ‘ proverb -philosophy,  anec- 
‘ dotes,  fables  and  jests,  the  seeds  of  which,  on  the  fertile 
‘German  soil,  spread  luxuriantly  through  several  generations,’ 
is  perhaps  the  best  example.  Lastly,  in  a third  class,  we  find 
in  full  play  that  spirit  of  broad  drollery,  of  rough  saturnine 
Humour,  wrhich  the  Germans  claim  as  a special  characteristic  ; 
among  these,  we  must  not  omit  to  mention  the  SchiUbiirger, 
correspondent  to  our  own  Wise  Men  of  Gotham  ; still  less,  the 


'In  1483,  by  command  of  a certain  Eberhard,  Duke  of  W intern  berg-. 
Wliat  relation  this  old  Book  of  Wisdom  bears  to  our  actual  Pilpay,  wa 
have  not  learned. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


35 


far-famed  Tyll  Eulenspiegel  (Tyll  Owlglass),  whose  rogueries 
and  waggeries  belong,  in  the  fullest  sense,  to  this  era. 

This  last  is  a true  German  work  ; for  both  the  man  Tyll 
Eulenspiegel,  and  the  Book  which  is  his  history,  were  pro- 
duced there.  Nevertheless,  Tyll’s  fame  has  gone  abroad  into 
all  lands  : this,  the  Narrative  of  his  exploits,  has  been  pub- 
lished in  innumerable  editions,  even  with  all  manner  of 
learned  glosses,  and  translated  into  Latin,  English,  French, 
Dutch,  Polish  ; nay,  in  several  languages,  as  in  his  own,  an 
Eulenspiegelerei,  an  Espieglerie,  or  -dog’s  trick,  so  named  after 
him,  still,  by  consent  of  lexicographers,  keeps  his  memory 
alive.  We  may  say,  that  to  few  mortals  has  it  been  granted 
to  earn  such  a place  in  Universal  History  as  Tyll  : for  now 
after  five  centuries,  when  Wallace’s  birthplace  is  unknown 
even  to  the  Scots ; and  the  Admirable  Crichton  still  more 
rapidly  is  grown  a shadow ; and  Edward  Longshanks  sleeps 
unregarded  save  by  a few  antiquarian  English, — Tyll’s  native 
village  is  pointed  out  with  pride  to  the  traveller,  and  his 
tombstone,  with  a sculptured  pun  on  his  name,  an  Owl, 
namely,  and  a Glass,  still  stands,  or  pretends  to  stand,  ‘at 
Mollen,  near  Lubeck,’  where,  since  1350,  his  once  nimble 
bones  have  been  at  rest.  Tyll,  in  the  calling  he  had  chosen, 
naturally  led  a wandering  life,  as  place  after  place  became 
too  hot  for  him  ; by  which  means  he  saw  into  many  things 
with  his  own  eyes  : having  been  not  only  over  all  Westphalia 
and  Saxony,  but  even  in  Poland,  and  as  far  as  Rome.  That 
in  his  old  days,  like  other  great  men,  he  became  an  Auto- 
biographer, and  in  trustful  winter  evenings,  not  on  paper,  but 
on  air,  and  to  the  laughter-lovers  of  Mollen,  composed  this 
work  himself,  is  purely  a hypothesis  ; certain  only  that  it 
came  forth  originally  in  the  dialect  of  this  region,  namely  the 
Platt-Deutsch ; and  was  therefrom  translated,  probably  about 
a century  afterwards,  into  its  present  High  German,  as  Lessing 
conjectures,  by  one  Thomas  Murner,  who  on  other  grounds 
is  not  unknown  to  antiquaries.  For  the  rest,  write  it  who 
might,  the  Book  is  here,  ‘ abounding,’  as  a wise  Critic  re- 
marks, ‘ in  inventive  humour,  in  rough  merriment  and  broad 
‘ drollery,  not  without  a keen  rugged  shrewdness  of  insight ; 


36 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


‘ which  properties  must  have  made  it  irresistibly  captivating 
‘ to  the  popular  sense  ; and,  with  all  its  fantastic  extrava- 
‘ gancies  and  roguish  crotchets,  in  many  points  instructive.’ 
From  Tyll’s  so  captivating  achievements,  we  shall  here 
select  one  to  insert  some  account  of  ; the  rather  as  the  tale 
is  soon  told,  and  by  means  of  it  we  catch  a little  trait  of 
manners,  and,  through  Tyll’s  spectacles,  may  peep  into  the 
interior  of  a Household,  even  of  a Parsonage,  in  those  old 
days. 


‘ It  chanced  after  so  many  adventures,  that  Eulenspiegel 
came  to  a Parson,  who  promoted  him  to  be  his  Sacristan,  or 
as  we  now  say,  Sexton.  Of  this  Parson  it  is  recorded  that  he 
kept  a Concubine  who  had  but  one  eye' ; she  also  had  a spite 
at  Tyll,  and  was  wont  to  speak  evil  of  him  to  his  master,  and 
report  his  rogueries.  Now  while  Eulenspiegel  held  this  Sex- 
toncy,  the  Easter-season  came,  and  there  was  to  be  a play  set 
forth  of  the  Resurrection  of  our  Lord.  And  as  the  peojfle 
were  not  learned,  and  could  not  read,  the  Parson  took  his 
Concubine  and  stationed  her  in  the  holy  Sepulchre  by  way 
of  Angel.  Which  thing  Eulenspiegel  seeing,  he  took  to  him 
three  of  the  simplest  persons  that  could  be  found  there,  to 
enact  the  Three  Marys ; and  the  Parson  himself,  with  a flag 
in  his  hand,  represented  Christ.  Thereupon  spake  Eulen- 
spiegel to  the  simple  persons  : “ When  the  Angel  asks  you, 
Whom  ye  seek,  ye  must  answer  : The  Parson’s  one-eyed  Con- 
cubine.” Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  time  arrived  when 
they  were  to  act,  and  the  Angel  asked  them : “ Whom  seek 
ye  here  ? ” and  they  answered,  as  Eulenspiegel  had  taught 
and  bidden  them,  and  said  : “We  seek  the  Parson’s  one-eyed 
Concubine.”  Whereby  did  the  Parson  observe  that  he  was 
made  a mock  of.  And  when  the  Parson’s  Concubine  heard 
the  same,  she  started  out  of  the  Grave,  and  aimed  a box  at 
Eulenspiegel’s  face,  but  missed  him,  and  hit  one  of  the  simple 
persons,  who  were  representing  the  Three  Marys.  This  lat- 
ter then  returned  her  a slap  on  the  mouth,  whereupon  she 
caught  him  by  the  hail-.  But  his  Wife  seeing  this,  came  run- 
ning thither,  and  fell  upon  the  Parson’s  Harlot.  Which  thing 
the  Parson  discerning,  he  threw  down  his  flag,  and  sprang 
forward  to  his  Harlot’s  assistance.  Thus  gave  they  one 
another  hearty  thwacking  and  basting,  and  there  was  great 
uproar  in  the  Church.  But  when  Eulenspiegel  perceived 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


37 


that  they  all  liad  one  another  by  the  ears  in  the  Church,  he 
went  his  ways,  and  came  no  more  back.”  1 

These  and  the  like  pleasant  narratives  were  the  People’s 
Comedy  in  those  days.  Neither  was  their  Tragedy  wanting  ; 
as  indeed  both  spring  up  spontaneously  in  all  regions  of 
human  Life  ; however,  their  chief  work  of  this  latter  class, 
the  wild,  deep  and  now  world-renowned  Legend  of  Faust,  be- 
longs to  a somewhat  later  date.2 

1 Flfgel,  iv.  290.  For  more  of  Eulenspiegel,  see  Gorres  Ueber  die 
Volksbiicher. 

2 To  the  fifteenth  century,  say  some  who  fix  it  on  Johann  Faust,  the 
Goldsmith  and  partial  Inventor  of  Printing:  to  the  sixteenth  century, 
say  others,  referring  it  to  Johann  Faust,  Doctor  in  Philosophy;  which 
individual  did  actually,  as  the  Tradition  also  hears,  study  first  at  Wit- 
tenberg (where  he  might  be  one  of  Luther's  pupils),  then  at  Ingolstadt, 
where  also  he  taught,  and  had  a Famulus  named  Wagner,  son  of  a 
clergyman  at  Wasserberg.  Melanethon,  Tritlieim  and  other  credible 
witnesses,  some  of  whom  had  seen  the  man,  vouch  sufficiently  for  these 
facts.  The  rest  of  the  Doctor’s  history  is  much  more  obscure.  He  seems 
to  have  been  of  a vehement,  unquiet  temper  ; skilled  in  Natural  Phi- 
losophy, and  perhaps  in  the  occult  science  of  Conjuring,  by  aid  of  which 
two  gifts,  a much  shallower  man,  wandering  in  Need  and  Pride  over  the 
world  in  those  days,  might,  without  any  Mepliistopheles,  have  worked 
wonders  enough.  Nevertheless,  that  he  rode  through  the  ah-  on  a 
wine-cask,  from  Auerbach’s  Keller  at  Leipsig,  in  1523,  seems  question- 
able ; though  an  old  carving,  in  that  venerable  Tavern,  still  mutely  as- 
serts it  to  the  toper  of  this  day.  About  1560,  his  term  of  Tlianma- 
turgy  being  over,  he  disappeared  : whether  under  feigned  name,  by 
the  rope  of  some  hangman  ; or  ‘ frightfully  torn  in  pieces  by  the  Devil, 
near  the  village  of  Rimlich,  between  Twelve  and  One  in  the  morning,’ 
let  each  reader  judge  for  himself.  The  latter  was  clearly  George 
Rudolf  Wiedemann’s  opinion,  whose  Veritable  History  of  the  abominable 
Lins  of  Dr.  Johann  Faust  came  out  at  Hamburg  in  1599  ; and  is  no  less 
circumstantially  announced  in  the  old  Feople’s-Eook,  That  everyichn  - 
infamous  Arch-Black- Artist  and  Conjuror , Dr.  Faust's  Compact  with  the 
Devil,  wonderful  Walk  and  Conversation,  and  terrible  End,  printed 
seemingly  without  date,  at  Koln  (Cologne)  and  Niirnberg  ; read  by 
every  one  ; written  by  we  know  not  whom.  See  again,  for  farther  in- 
sight, Gorres  Ueber  die  dcntschen  Volksbiicher.  Another  Work  (Leipsig, 
1824),  expressly  ‘On  Faust  and  the  Wandering  Jew,’ which  latter,  in 
those  times,  wandered  much  in  Germany,  is  also  referred  to. — Conv. 
Lexicon,  § Faust. 


38 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Thus,  though  the  Poetry  which  spoke  iu  rhyme  was  feeble 
enough,  the  spirit  of  Poetry  could  nowise  be  regarded  as  ex- 
tinct ; while  Fancy,  Imagination  and  all  the  intellectual  fac- 
ulties necessary  for  that  art,  were  in  active  exercise.  Neither 
had  the  Enthusiasm  of  heart,  on  which  it  still  more  intimately 
depends,  died  out  ; but  only  taken  another  form.  In  lower 
degrees  it  expressed  itself  as  an  ardent  zeal  for  Knowledge 
and  Improvement ; for  spiritual  excellence  such  as  the  time 
held  out  and  prescribed.  This  was  no  languid,  low-minded 
age ; but  of  earnest  busy  effort ; in  all  provinces  of  culture 
resolutely  struggling  forward.  Classical  Literature,  after 
long  hindrances,  had  now  found  its  way  into  Germany  also : 
old  Home  was  open,  with  all  its  wealth,  to  the  intelligent  eye  ; 
scholars  of  Chrysoloras  were  fast  unfolding  the  treasures  of 
Greece.  School  Philosophy,  which  had  never  obtained  firm 
footing  among  the  Germans,  was  in  all  countries  drawing  to 
a close  ; but  the  subtle,  piercing  vision,  which  it  had  fostered 
and  called  into  activity,  was  henceforth  to  employ  itself  with 
new  profit  on  more  substantial  interests.  In  such  manifold 
praiseworthy  endeavours  the  most  ardent  mind  had  ample 
arena. 

A higher,  purer  enthusiasm,  again,  which  no  longer  found 
its  place  in  chivalrous  Minstrelsy,  might  still  retire  to  medi- 
tate aud  worship  in  religious  Cloisters,  where,  amid  all  the 
corruption  of  monkish  manners,  there  were  not  wanting  men 
who  aimed  at,  and  accomplished,  the  highest  problem  of 
manhood,  a life  of  spiritual  Truth.  Among  the  Germans 
especially,  that  deep-feeling,  deep-thinking,  devout  temper 
now  degenerating  into  abstruse  theosophy,  now  purifying 
itself  into  holy  eloquence  and  clear  apostolic  light,  was  awake 
in  this  era  ; a temper  which  had  long  dwelt,  and  still  dwells 
there ; which  erelong  was  to  render  that  people  worthy  the 
honour  of  giving  Europe  a new  Reformation,  a new  Religion. 
As  an  example  of  monkish  diligence  and  zeal,  if  of  nothing 
more,  we  here  mention  the  German  Bible  of  Mathias  von 
Behaim,  which,  in  his  Hermitage  at  Halle,  he  rendered  from 
the  Vulgate,  in  1343  ; the  Manuscript  of  which  is  still  to  be 
seen  in  Leipzig.  Much  more  conspicuous  stand  two  other 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


39 


German  Priests  of  this  Period  ; to  whom,  as  connected  with 
Literature  also,  a few  words  must  now  be  devoted. 

Johann  Tauler  is  a name  which  fails  in  no  Literary  His- 
tory of  Germany  : he  was  a man  famous  iu  his  own  day  as 
the  most  eloquent  of  preachers  ; is  still  noted  by  critics  for 
his  intellectual  deserts  ; by  pious  persons,  especially  of  the 
class  called  Mystics,  is  still  studied  as  a practical  instructor  ; 
and  by  all  true  inquirers  prized  as  a person  of  high  talent  and 
moral  worth.  Tauler  was  a Dominican  Monk  ; seems  to  have 
lived  and  preached  at  Strasburg  ; where,  as  his  gravestone 
still  testifies,  he  died  in  1361.  His  devotional  works  have 
been  often  edited  : one  of  his  modern  admirers  has  written 
his  biography  ; wherein  perhaps  this  is  the  strangest  fact,  if 
it  be  one,  that  once  in  the  pulpit,  ! he  grew  suddenly  dumb, 

‘ and  did  nothing  but  weep  ; in  which  despondent  state  he 
‘ continued  for  two  whole  years.’  Then,  however,  he  again 
lifted  up  his  voice,  with  new  energy  and  new  potency.  We 
learn  farther,  that  he  ‘ renounced  the  dialect  of  Philosophy, 
and  spoke  direct  to  the  heart  in  language  of  the  heart.’  His 
Sermons,  composed  in  Latin  and  delivered  in  German,  in 
which  language,  after  repeated  renovations  and  changes  of 
dialect,  they  are  still  read,  have,  with  his  other  writings,  been 
characterised,  by  a native  critic  worthy  of  confidence,  in  these 
terms : 

‘ They  contain  a treasure  of  meditations,  hints,  indications, 
full  of  heart-felt  piety,  which  still  speak  to  the  inmost  long- 
ings and  noblest  wants  of  man’s  mind.  His  style  is  abrupt, 
compressed,  significant  in  its  conciseness ; the  nameless  depth 
of  feelings  struggles  with  the  phraseology.  He  was  the  first 
that  wrested  from  our  German  speech  the  fit  expression  for 
ideas  of  moral  Reason  and  Emotion,  and  has  left  us  riches 
in  that  kind,  such  as  the  zeal  for  purity  and  fulness  of  lan- 
guage in  our  own  days  cannot  leave  unheeded.’ — Tauler,  it  is 
added,  ‘ was  a man  who,  imbued  with  genuine  Devoutness,  as 
it  springs  from  the  depths  of  a soul  strengthened  in  self-con-' 
templation,  and,  free  and  all  powerful,  rules  over  Life  and  Ef- 
fort,-— attempted  to  train  and  win  the  people  for  a duty  which 
had  hitherto  been  considered  as  that  of  the  learned  class 
alone  : to  raise  the  Lay-world  into  moral  study  of  Religion 


£0 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


for  themselves,  that  so,  enfranchised  from  the  bonds  of  unre- 
flecting custom,  they  might  regulate  Creed  and  Conduct  by 
strength  self-acquired.  He  taught  men  to  look  within  ; by 
spiritual  contemplation  to  feel  the  secret  of  their  higher  Des- 
tiny ; to  seek  in  their  own  souls  what  from  without  is  never, 
or  too  scantily  afforded  ; self-believing,  to  create  what,  by  the 
dead  letter  of  foreign  Tradition,  can  never  be  brought  forth.’ 1 

Known  to  ah  Europe,  as  Tauler  is  to  Germany,  and  of  a 
class  with  him,  as  a man  of  antique  Christian  walk,  of  warm 
devoutly-feeling  poetic  spirit,  and  insight  and  experience  in 
the  deepest  regions  of  man’s  heart  and  life,  follows,  in  the 
next  generation,  Thomas  Hamerken,  or  Hammerlein  (Malleo- 
lus) ; usually  named  Thomas  a Kempis,  that  is,  Thomas  of 
Kempen,  a village  near  Cologne,  where  he  was  born  in  1388. 
Others  contend  that  Kampen  in  Overyssel  was  his  birthplace  ; 
however,  in  either  case,  at  that  era,  more  especially  consider- 
ing what  he  did,  we  can  here  regard  him  as  a Deutscher,  a 
German.  For  his  spiritual  and  intellectual  character  we  may 
refer  to  his  works,  written  in  the  Latin  tongue,  and  still 
known ; above  all,  to  his  far-famed  work  De  Imitations  Christi, 
which  has  been  praised  by  such  men  as  Luther.  Leibnitz,  Hal- 
ler ; and,  what  is  more,  has  been  read,  and  continues  to  be 
read,  with  moral  profit,  in  all  Christian  languages  and  commun- 
ions, having  passed  through  upwards  of  a thousand  editions, 
which  number  is  yet  daily  increasing.  A new  English  Thomas 
d Kempis  was  published  only  the  other  year.  But  the  ven- 
erable man  deserves  a word  from  us,  not  only  as  a high,  spot- 
less Priest,  and  father  of  the  Church,  at  a time  when  such 
were  rare,  but  as  a zealous  promoter  of  learning,  which,  in 
his  own  country,  he  accomplished  much  to  forward.  Ham- 
merlein, the  son  of  poor  parents,  had  been  educated  at  the 
famous  school  of  Deventer ; he  himself  instituted  a similar 
one  at  Zwoll,  which  long  continued  the  grand  classical  semi- 
nary of  the  North.  Among  his  own  pupils  we  find  enumerated 
Moritz  von  Spiegelberg,  Rudolf  von  Lange,  Rudolf  Agricola. 

1 Wacliler,  Vorlesunqen  fiber  die  Geschiclite  der  deuUchen  National - 
litteratur  (Lectures  on  tlie  History  of  German  National  Literature),  b.  i. 
s.  131. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


41 


Antonins  Liber,  Luclwig  Dringenberg,  Alexander  Hegius  ; of 
whom!  Agricola,  with  other  two,  by  advice  of  their  teacher, 
visited  Italy  to  study  Greek  ; the  whole  six,  united  through 
manhood  and  life,  as  they  had  been  in  youth  and  at  school, 
are  regarded  as  the  founders  of  true  classical  literature  among 
the  Germans.  Their  scliolastico-monastic  establishments  at 
Deventer,’ with  Zwoll  and  its  other  numerous  offspring,  which 
rapidly  extended  themselves  over  the  northwest  of  Europe 
from  Artois  to  Silesia,  and  operated  powerfully  both  in  a 
moral  and  intellectual  view,  are  among  the  characteristic  re- 
deeming features  of  that  time  ; but  the  details  of  them  fall  not 
within  our  present  limits. 1 

If  now,  quitting  the  Cloister  and  Library,  we  look  abroad 
over  active  Life,  and  the  general  state  of  culture  and  spirit- 
ual  endeavour  as  manifested  there,  wre  have  on  all  hands  the 
cheering  prospect  of  a society  in  full  progress.  The  Practical 
Spirit,  which  had  pressed  forward  into  Poetry  itself,  could 
not  but  be  busy  and  successful  in  those  provinces  where  its 
home  specially  lies.  Among  the  Germans,  it  is  true,  so  far  as 
political  condition  was  concerned,  the  aspect  of  affairs  had 
not  changed  for  the  better.  The  Imperial  Constitution  was 
weakened  and  loosened  into  the  mere  semblance  of  a Govern- 
ment ; the  head  of  which  had  still  the  title,  but  no  longer  the 
reality  of  sovereign  power  ; so  that  Germany,  ever  since  the 
times  of  Rudolf,  had,  as  it  wrere,  ceased  to  be  one  great  na- 
tion, and  become  a disunited,  often  conflicting  aggregate  of 
small  nations.  Nay,  we  may  almost  say,  of  petty  districts,  or 
even  of  households : for  now,  when  every  pitiful  Baron  claimed 
to  be  an  independent  potentate,  and  exercised  his  divine  right 
of  peace  and  war  too  often  in  plundering  the  industrious 
Burgher,  public  Law  could  no  longer  vindicate  the  weak 
against  the  strong : except  the  venerable  unwritten  code  of 
Faustrecht  (Club-Law),  there  was  no  other  valid.  On  every 
steep  rock,  or  difficult  fastness,  these  dread  sovereigns  perched 
themselves  ; studding  the  country  with  innumerable  Fiaub- 
schlosser  (Robber-Towers),  which  now'  in  the  eye  of  the  pict- 
uresque tourist  look  interesting  enough,  but  in  those  days 
1 See  Eicliliorn's  Geschichte  dev  Litteratur,  b.  ii.  s.  134. 


42 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


were  interesting  on  far  other  grounds.  Herein  dwelt  a race 
of  persons,  proud,  ignorant,  hungry ; who,  boasting  of  an  end- 
less pedigree,  talked  familiarly  of  living  on  the  produce  of 
their  ‘Saddles’  ( vom  Sattel  zu  leben),  that  is  to  say,  by  the  pro- 
fession of  highwayman  ; for  which  unluckily,  as  just  hinted, 
there  was  then  no  effectual  gallows.  Some,  indeed,  might 
plunder  as  the  eagle,  others  as  the  vulture  and  crow ; but,  in 
general,  from  men  cultivating  that  walk  of  life,  no  profit  in 
any  other  was  to  be  'looked  for.  Vain  was  it,  however,  for  the 
Kaiser  to  publish  edict  on  edict  against  them  ; nay,  if  he  de- 
stroyed their  Robber-Towers,  new  ones  were  built  ; was  the 
old  wolf  hunted  down,  the  cub  had  escaped,  who  reappeared 
when  his  teeth  were  grown.  Not  till  industry  and  social  cul- 
tivation had  everywhere  spread,  and  risen  supreme,  could  that 
brood,  in  detail,  be  extirpated  or  tamed. 

Neither  was  this  miserable  defect  of  police  the  only  misery 
in  such  a state  of  things.  For  the  saddle-eating  Baron,  even 
in  pacific  circumstances,  naturally  looked  down  on  the  fruit- 
producing  .Burgher  ; who,  again,  feeling  himself  a wiser, 
wealthier,  better  and  in  time  a stronger  man,  ill  brooked  this 
procedure,  and  retaliated,  or,  by  quite  declining  such  com- 
munications, avoided  it.  Thus,  throughout  long  centuries, 
and  after  that  old  Code  of  Club-Law  had  been  wellnigh  abol- 
ished, the  effort  of  the  nation  was  still  divided  into  two 
courses  ; the  Noble  and  the  Citizen  would  not  work  together, 
freely  imparting  and  receiving  their  several  gifts  ; but  the 
culture  of  the  polite  arts,  and  that  of  the  useful  arts,  had  to 
proceed  with  mutual  disadvantage,  each  on  its  separate  foot- 
ing. Indeed  that  supercilious  and  too  marked  distinction  of 
ranks,  which  so  ridiculously  characterised  the  Germans,  has 
only  in  very  recent  times  disappeared. 

Nevertheless  here,  as  it  ever  does,  the  strength  of  the 
country  lay  in  the  middle  classes ; which  were  sound  and 
active,  and,  in  spite  of  all  these  hindrances,  daily  advancing. 
The  Free  Towns,  which,  in  Germany  as  elsewhere,  the  sov- 
ereign favoured,  held  within  then’  walls  a race  of  men  as 
brave  as  they  of  the  Robber-Towers,  but  exercising  their 
bravery  on  fitter  objects  ; who,  by  degrees,  too,  ventured  into 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


43 


the  field  against  even  the  greatest  of  these  kinglets,  and  in 
many  a stout  fight  taught  them  a juristic  doctrine,  which  no 
head  with  all  its  helmets  was  too  thick  for  taking  in.  The 
Four  Forest  Cantons  had  already  testified  in  this  way  ; their 
Tells  and  Stauffachers  preaching,  with  apostolic  blows  and 
knocks,  like  so  many  Luthers  ; whereby,  from  their  remote 
Alpine  glens,  all  lands  and  all  times  have  heard  them,  and 
believed  them.  By  dint  of  such  logic  it  began  to  be  under- 
stood everywhere,  that  a Man,  whether  clothed  in  purple 
cloaks  or  in  tanned  sheepskins,  wielding  the  sceptre  or  the 
oxgoad,  is  neither  Deity  nor  Beast,  but  simply  a Man,  and 
must  comport  himself  according!}". 

But  commerce  of  itself  was  pouring  new  strength  into 
every  peaceable  community  ; the  Hanse  League,  now  in  full 
vigour,  secured  the  fruits  of  industry  over  all  the  North. 
The  havens  of  the  Netherlands,  thronged  with  ships  from 
every  sea,  transmitted  or  collected  their  wide-borne  freight 
over  Germany  ; where,  far  inland,  flourished  market-cities 
‘with  their  cunning  workmen,  their  spacious  warehouses,  and 
merchants  who  in  opulence  vied  with  the  richest.  Except 
perhaps  in  the  close  vicinity  of  Bobber-Towers,  and  even 
there  not  always  nor  altogether,  Diligence,  good  Order, 
peaceful  Abundance  were  everywhere  conspicuous  in  Ger- 
many. Petrarch  has  celebrated,  in  warm  terms,  the  beauties 
of  the  Bhine,  as  he  witnessed  them  ; the  rich,  embellished, 
cultivated  aspect  of  land  and  people  : iEneas  Sylvius,  af- 

terwards Pope  Pius  the  Second,  expresses  himself,  in  the 
next  century,  with  still  greater  emphasis : he  says,  and  he 
could  judge,  having  seen  both,  * that  the  King  of  Scotland 
‘ did  not  live  so  handsomely  as  a moderate  Citizen  of  Nurn- 
‘berg  : ’ indeed  Conrad  Celtes,  another  contemporary  witness, 
informs  us,  touching  thege  same  citizens,  that  their  wives  went 
abroad  loaded  with  the  richest  jewels,  that ‘most  of  their 
household  utensils  were  of  silver  and  gold.’  For,  as  iEneas 
Sylvius  adds,  ‘their  mercantile  activity  is  astonishing;  the 
greater  part  of  the  German  nation  consists  of  merchants.’ 
Thus  too,  in  Augsburg,  the  Fugger  family  which  sprang, 
like  that  of  the  Medici,  from  smallest  beginnings,  were  fast 


44: 


EAIILT  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


rising  into  that  height  of  commercial  greatness,  such  that 
Charles  V.,  in  viewing  the  Royal  Treasury  at  Paris,  could 
say,  “I  have  a weaver  in  Augsburg  able  to  buy  it  all  with 
his  own  gold.  ’1  With  less  satisfaction  the  same  haughty 
Monarch  had  to  see  his  own  Nephew  wedded  to  the  fair 
Philippine  Welser,  daughter  of  another  merchant  in  that  city, 
and  for  wisdom  and  beauty  the  paragon  of  her  time.2 

1 Charles  had  his  reasons  for  such  a speech.  This  same  Anton  Fugger, 
to  whom  he  alluded  here,  had  often  stood  by  him  in  straits  ; showing  a 
munificence  and  even  generosity  worthy  of  the  proudest  princes.  Dur- 
ing the  celebrated  Diet  of  Augsburg,  in  1530,  the  Emperor  lodged  for  a 
whole  year  in  Anton’s  house  ; and  Anton  was  a man  to  warm  his  Em- 
peror 1 at  a fire  of  cinnamon  wood,’  and  to  burn  therein  ‘ the  bonds  for 
large  sums  owing  him  by  his  majesty.’  For  all  which,  Anton  and  his 
kindred  had  countships  and  princeships  in  abundance  ; also  the  right 
to  coin  money,  but  no  solid  bullion  to  exercise  such  right  on  ; which, 
however,  they  repeatedly  did  on  bullion  of  their  own.  This  Anton  left 
six  millions  of  gold-crowns  in  cash ; ‘ besides  precious  articles,  jewels, 
properties  in  all  countries  of  Europe,  and  both  the  Indies.’  The  Fug- 
gers  had  ships  on  every  sea,  wagons  on  every  highway  ; they  worked 
the  Carinthian  Mines  ; even  Albrecht  Durer’s  Fictures  must  pass  through 
their  warehouses  to  the  Italian  market.  However,  this  family  had 
other  merits  than  their  mountains  of  metal,  their  kindness  to  needy 
Sovereigns,  and  even  their  all-embracing  spirit  of  commercial  enter- 
prise. They  were  famed  for  acts  of  general  beneficence,  and  did  much 
charity  where  no  imperial  thanks  were  to  be  looked  for.  To  found 
Hospitals  and  Schools,  on  the  most  liberal  scale  was  a common  thing 
with  them.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  three  benevolent  brothers  of  the 
House  purchased  a suburb  of  Augsburg  ; rebuilt  it  with  small  commo- 
dious houses,  to  be  let  to  indigent  industrious  burghers  for  a trifling 
rent  : this  is  the  well-known  Fuggerei,  which  still  existing,  with  its 
own  walls  and  gate,  maintains  their  name  in  daily  currency -there. — 
The  formder  of  this  remarkable  family  did  actually  drive  the  shuttle  in 
the  village  of  Goggingen,  near  Augsburg,  about  the  middle  of  the  Four- 
teenth Century;  ‘but  in  1619,’ says  the  Spiegel  d&r  Ehren  (Mirror  of 
Honour),  ‘the  noble  stem  had  so  branched  out,  that  there  were  forty  - 
1 seven  Counts  and  Countesses  belonging  to  it,  and  of  young  descend- 
‘ ants  as  many  as  there  are  days  in  the  year.’  Four  stout  boughs  of 
this  same  noble  stem,  in  the  rank  of  Princes,  still  subsist  and  flourish. 

‘ Thus  in  the  generous  Fuggers,’  says  that  above-named  Mirror , ‘was 
‘fulfilled  our  Saviour’s  promise:  Give,  and  it  shall  be  given  you.’ — - 
Corn.  Lexicon , § Fugger-  Geschlecht. 

- The  Welsers  were  of  patrician  descent,  and  had  for  many  centuries 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


45 


In  this  state  of  economical  prosperity,  Literature  and  Art, 
such  kinds  of  them  at  least  as  had  a practical  application, 
could  not  want  encouragement.  It  is  mentioned  as  one  of 
the  furtherances  to  Classical  Learning  among  the  Germans, 
that  these  Free  Towns,  as  well  as  numerous  petty  Courts  of 
Princes,  exercising  a sovereign  power,  required  individuals 
of  some  culture  to  conduct  their  Diplomacy  ; one  man  able 
at  least  to  write  a handsome  Latin  style  was  an  indispensable 
requisite.  For  a long  while  even  this  small  accomplishment 
was  not  to  be  acquired  in  Germany  ; where,  such  had  been 
the  troublous  condition  of  the  Governments,  there  were  yet, 
in  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  no  Universities  ; 
however,  a better  temper  and  better  fortune  began  at  length 
to  prevail  among  the  German  Sovereigns  ; the  demands  of  the 
time  insisted  on  fulfilment.  The  University  of  Prague  was 
founded  in  1348,  that  of  Vienna  in  1364  ; 1 and  now,  as  if  to 
make  up  for  the  delay,  princes  and  communities  on  all  hands 
made  haste  to  establish  similar  Institutions  ; so  that  before 
the  end  of  the  century  we  find  three  others,  Heidelberg,  Co- 
logne, Erfurt ; in  the  course  of  the  next,  no  fewer  than  eight 

followed  commerce  at  Augsburg,  where,  next  only  to  the  Fuggers,  they 
played  a high  part.  It  was  they,  for  example,  that,  at  their  own 
charges,  first  colonised  Venezuela  ; that  equipped  the  first  German  ship 
to  India,  ‘ the  Journal  of  which  still  exists  ; ’ they  united  with  the 
Fuggers  to  lend  Charles  V.  twelve  Tonnen  Gold  1,200,000  Florins.  The 
fair  Philippine,  by  her  pure  charms  and  honest  wiles,  worked  out  a rec- 
onciliation with  Kaiser  Ferdinand  the  First,  her  Father-in-law;  lived 
thirty  happy  years  with  her  husband  ; and  had  medals  struck  by  him, 
Dices  Philippines,  in  honour  of  her,  when  (at  Inspruck  in  1580)  he  be- 
came a widower. — Conv.  Lexicon , § Welser. 

1 There  seems  to  be  some  controversy  about  the  precedence  here  : Bou- 
terwek  gives  Vienna,  with  a date  1333,  as  the  earliest  ; Koch  again  puts 
Heidelberg,  1346,  in  front ; the  dates  in  the  Text  profess  to  he  taken  from 
Meiner’s  Geschichte  der  Entslehung  und  Enlwick'elung  der  Hohen  Sclvulen 
unsers  Erdtlieils  (History  of  the  Origin  and  Development  of  High  Schools 
in  Europe),  Gottingen,  1802.  The  last-established  University  is  that  of 
Miinchen  (Munich),  in  1826.  Prussia  alone  has  21,000  Public  School- 
masters, specially  trained  to  their  profession,  sometimes  even  sent  to 
travel  for  improvement,  at  the  cost  of  Government.  What  says  ‘the 
most  enlightened  nation  in  the  world’  to  this  ? — Eats  its  pudding,  and 
says  little  or  nothing. 


46 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


more,  of  which  Leipsig  (in  1404)  is  the  most  remarkable. 
Neither  did  this  honourable  zeal  grow  cool  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  or  even  down  to  our  own,  -when  Germany,  boasting 
of  some  forty  great  Schools  and  twenty-two  Universities,  four 
of  which  date  within  the  last  thirty  years,  may  fairly  reckon 
itself  the  best  school-provided  country  in  Europe  ; as,  indeed, 
those  who  in  any  measure  know  it,  are  aware  that  it  is  also 
indisputably  the  best  educated. 

Still  more  decisive  are  the  proofs  of  national  activity,  of 
progressive  culture,  among  the  Germans,  if  we  glance  at 
what  concerns  the  practical-  Arts.  Apart  from  Universities 
and  learned  show,  there  has  always  dwelt,  in  those  same  Niim- 
bergs,  and  Augsburgs,  a solid,  quietly-perseverant  spirit,  full 
of  old  Teutonic  character  and  old  Teutonic  sense  ; whereby, 
ever  and  anon,  from  under  the  bonnet  of  some  rugged  Ger- 
man artisan  or  staid  burgher,  this  and  the  other  World-Inven- 
tion has  been  starting  forth,  where  such  was  least  of  all  looked 
for.  Indeed,  with  regard  to  practical  Knowledge  in  general, 
if  we  consider  the  present  history  and  daily  life  of  mankind,  it 
must  be  owned  that  while  each  nation  has  contributed  a share, 
— the  largest  share,  at  least  of  such  shares  as  can  be  appro- 
priated and  fixed  on  any  special  contributor,  belongs  to  Ger- 
many. Copernic,  Hevel,  Kepler,  Otto  Guericke,  are  of  other 
times  ; but  in  this  era  also  the  spirit  of  Inquiry,  of  Invention, 
was  especially  busy.  Gunpowder  (of  the  thirteenth  century), 
though  Milton  gives  the  credit  of  it  to  Satan,  has  helped 
mightily  to  lessen  the  horrors  of  War : thus  much  at  least 
must  be  admitted  in  its  favour,  that  it  secures  the  dominion 
of  civilised  over  savage  man : nay  hereby,  in  personal  con- 
tests, not  brute  Strength,  but  Courage  and  Ingenuity,  can 
avail ; for  the  Dwarf  and  the  Giant  are  alike  strong  with  pis- 
tols between  them.  Neither  can  Valour  now  find  its  best 
arena  in  War,  in  Battle,  which  is  henceforth  a matter  of  cal- 
culation and  strategy,  and  the  soldier  a chess-pawn  to  shoot 
and  be  shot  at ; whereby  that  noble  quality  may  at  length 
come  to  reserve  itself  for  other  more  legitimate  occasions,  of 
which,  in  this  our  Life-Battle  with  Destiny,  there  are  enough. 
And  thus  Gunpowder,  if  it  spread  the  havoc  of  War,  mitigates 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


47 


it  in  a still  higher  degree  ; like  some  Inoculation. — to  which 
may  an  extirpating  Vaccination  one  day  succeed ! It  ought 
to  be  stated,  however,  that  the  claim  of  Schwartz  to  the  origi- 
nal invention  is  dubious  ; to  the  sole  invention  altogether  un- 
founded : the  recipe  stands,  under  disguise,  in  the  writings 
of  Roger  Bacon  ; the  article  itself  was  previously  known  in 
the  East. 

Far  more  indisputable  are  the  advantages  of  Printing : 
and  if  the  story  of  Brother  Schwartz’s  mortar  giving  fire  and 
driving  his  pestle  through  the  ceiling,  in  the  city  of  Mentz, 
as  the  painful  Monk  and  Alchymist  was  accidentally  pounding 
the  ingredients  of  our  first  Gunpowder,  is  but  a fable, — that 
of  our  first  Book  being  printed  there  is  much  better  ascer- 
tained. Johann  Gutenberg  was  a native  of  Mentz  ; and  there, 
in  company  with  Faust  and  Schoffer  appears  to  have  com- 
pleted his  invention  between  the  years  1440  and  1449  : the 
famous  ‘Forty-two  hue  Bible  ’ was  printed  there  in  1455.1 
Of  this  noble  art,  which-  is  like  an  infinitely  intensated  organ 
of  Speech,  whereby  the  Voice  of  a small  transitory  man  may 
reach  not  only  through  all  earthly  Space,  but  through  all 
earthly  Time,  it  were  needless  to  repeat  the  often-repeated 
praises ; or  speculate  on  the  practical  effects,  the  most  mo- 
mentous of  which  are,  perhaps,  but  now  becoming  visible. 
On  this  subject  of  the  Press,  and  its  German  origin,  a far 
humbler  remark  may  be  in  place  here  ; namely,  that  Rag- 
paper,  the  material  on  which  Printing  works  and  lives,  was 
also  invented  in  Germany  some  hundred  and  fifty  years  before. 
‘ The  oldest  specimens  of  this  article  yet  known  to  exist,’ 
says  Eichhorn,  ‘ are  some  Documents,  of  the  year  1318,  in  the 
‘ Archives  of  the  Hospital  at  Kaufbeuern.  Breitkopf  ( Vom 
‘ Ursprung  der  Spielkarten , On  the  origin  of  Cards)  has  dem- 
‘ onstrated  our  claim  to  the  invention  ; and  that  France  and 
‘ England  borrowed  it  from  Germany,  and  Spain  from  Italy.’ 2 

1 As  to  the  Dutch  claim,  it  rests  only  on  vague  local  traditions,  which 
were  never  heard  of  publicly  till  their  Lorenz  Coster  had  been  dead 
almost  a hundred  and  fifty  years  ; so  that,  out  of  Holland,  it  finds  few 
partisans. 

2B.  ii.  s.  91. — ‘ The  first  German  Paper-mill  we  have  sure  account  of,’ 
says  Koch,  ‘worked  at  Niirnberg  in  1390.’ — Vol.  i.  p.  35. 


48 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


On  the  invention  of  Printing  their  followed  naturally  a 
multiplication  of  Books,  and  a new  activity,  which  has  ever 
since  proceeded  at  an  accelerating  rate,  in  the  business  of 
Literature  ; but  for  the  present,  no  change  in  its  character  or 
objects.  ' Those  Universities,  and  other  Establishments  and 
Improvements,  were  so  many  tools  which  the  spirit  of  the 
time  had  devised,  not  for  working  out  new  paths,  which  were 
their  ulterior  issue,  but  in  the  mean  while  for  proceeding- 
more  commodiously  on  the  old  path.  In  the  Prague  Univer- 
sity, it  is  true,  whither  Wickliffe’s  writings  had  found  their 
way,  a Teacher  of  more  earnest  tone  had  risen,  in  the  person 
of  John  Huss,  Rector  there  ; whose  Books,  Of  the  Six  Errors 
and  Of  the  Church,  still  more  his  energetic,  zealously  polemi- 
cal Discourses  to  the  people,  were  yet  unexampled  on  the 
Continent.  The  shameful  murder  of  this  man,  who  lived  and 
died  as  beseemed  a Martyr  ; and  the  stem  vengeance  which 
his  countrymen  took  for  it,  unhappily  not  on  the  Constance 
Cardinals,  but  on  less  offensive  Bohemian  Catholics,  kept  up 
during  twenty  years,  on  the  Eastern  Border  of  Germany,  an 
agitating  tumult,  not  only  of  opinion,  but  of  action  : however, 
the  fierce,  indomitable  Zisca  being  called  away,  and  the  pusil- 
lanimous Emperor  offering  terms,  which,  indeed,  he  did  not 
keep,  this  uproar  subsided,  and  the  national  activity  proceeded 
in  its  former  course. 

In  German  Literature,  during  those  years,  nothing  presents 
itself  as  worthy  of  notice  here.  Chronicles  were  -written  ; 
Class-books  for  the  studious,  edifying  Homilies,  in  varied 
guise,  for  the  busy,  were  compiled  : a few  Books  of  Travels 
make  then-  appearance,  among  which  Translations  from  our 
too  fabulous  countryman,  Mandeville,  are  perhaps  the  most 
remarkable.  Eor  the  rest,  Life  continued  to  be  looked  at  less 
with  poetic  admiration,  than  in  a spirit  of  observation  and 
comparison  : not  without  many  a protest  against  clerical  and 
secular  error,  such,  however,  seldom  rising  into  the  style  of 
grave  hate  and  hostility,  but  playfully  expressing  themselves 
in  satire.  The  old  effort  towards  the  Useful  ; in  Literature, 
the  old  prevalence  of  the  Didactic,  especially  of  the  JEsopie, 
is  everywhere  manifest.  Of  this  iEsopic  spirit,  what  phases 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


49 


it  successively  assumed,  and  its  significance  in  these,  there 
were  much  to  be  sakh  However,  in  place  of  multiplying 
smaller  instances  and  aspects,  let  us  now  take  up  the  high- 
est ; and  with  the  best  of  all  Apologues,  Reynard  llie  Fox,  ter- 
minate our  survey  of  that  Fable-loving  time. 

The  story  of  ReinecJce  Fuchs,  or,  to  give  it  the  original  Low-  . 
German  name,  Reineke  de  Fos,  is,  more  than  any  other,  a 
truly  European  performance  : for  some  centuries  a universal 
household  possession  and  secular  Bible,  read  everywhere,  iu 
the  palace  and  the  hut : it  still  interests  us,  moreover,  by  its 
intrinsic  worth,  being,  on  the  whole,  the  most  poetical  and 
meritorious  production  of  our  Western  World  in  that  kind  ; 
or  perhaps  of  the  whole  World,  though,  in  such  matters,  the 
West  has  generally  yielded  to,  and  learned  from,  the  East. 

Touching  the  origin  of  this  Book,  as  often  happens  in  like 
cases,  there  is  a controversy,  perplexed  not  only  by  inevitable 
ignorance,  But  also  by  anger  and  false  patriotism.  Into  this 
vexed  sea  we  have  happily  no  call  to  venture  ; and  shall  merely 
glance  for  a moment,  from  the  firm  land,  where  all  that  can 
specially  concern  us  in  the  matter  stands  rescued  and  safe. 
The  oldest  printed  Edition  of  our  actual  Reynard  is  that  of 
Liibeck,  in  1498  ; of  which  there  is  a copy,  understood  to  be 
the  only  one,  still  extant  in  the  Wolfenbiittel  Library.  This 
oldest  Edition  is  in  the  Low-German  or  Saxon  tongue,  and 
appears  to  have  been  produced  by  Hinrek  van  Alkmer,  who 
in  the  preface  calls  himself  ‘ Schoolmaster  and  Tutor  of  that 
noble  virtuous  Prince  and  Lord,  the  Duke  of  Lorraine,’  and 
says  farther,  that  by  order  of  this  same  worthy  sovereign,  he 
‘ sought  out  and  rendered  the  present  Book  from  Walloon 
‘and  French  tongue  into  German,  to  the  praise  and  honour 
! of  God,  and  wholesome  edification  of  whoso  readeth  therein.’ 
Which  candid  and  business-like  statement  would  doubtless 
have  continued  to  yield  entire  satisfaction  ; had  it  not  been 
that,  in  modem  days,  and  while  this  first  Liibeck  Edition  was 
still  lying  in  its  dusty  recess  unknown  to  Bibliomaniacs,  an- 
other account,  dated  some  hundred  years  later,  and  supported 
by  a little  subsequent  hearsay,  had  been  raked  up  : how  the 
4 


50 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


real  Author  was  Nicholas  Baumann,  Professor  at  Rostock  ; how 
he  had  been  Secretary  to  the  Duke  of  Juliers,  but  was  driven 
from  his  service  by  wicked  cabals  ; and  so  in  revenge  com- 
posed this  satirical  adumbration  of  the  Juliers  Court ; putting- 
on  the  title-page,  to  avoid  consequences,  the  feigned  tale  of 
its  being  rendered  from  the  French  and  Walloon  tongue,  and 
the  feigned  name  of  Hinrek  van  Alkmer,  who,  for  the  rest, 
was  never  Schoolmaster  and  Tutor  at  Lorraine,  or  anywhere 
else,  but  a mere  man  of  straw,  created  for  the  nonce  out  of  so 
many  Letters  of  the  Alphabet.  Hereupon  excessive  debate, 
and  a learned  sharp-shooting,  with  victory-shouts  on  both 
sides  ; into  which  we  nowise  enter.  Some  touch  of  human 
Sympathy  does  draw  us  towards  Hinrek,  whom,  if  he  was 
once  a real  man,  with  bones  and  sinews,  stomach  and  prov- 
ender scrip,  it  is  mournful  to  see  evaporated  away  into  mere 
vowels  and  consonants  : however,  beyond  a kind  wish,  we  can 
give  him  no  help.  In  Literary  History,  except  on  this  one  oc- 
casion, as  seems  indisputable  enough,  he  is  nowhere  men- 
tioned or  hinted  at. 

Leaving  Hinrek  and  Nicolaus,  then,  to  fight  out  their 
quarrel  as  they  may,  we  remark  that  the  clearest  issue  of  it 
would  throw  little  light  on  the  origin  of  Reinecke.  The  victor 
could  at  most  claim  to  be  the  first  German  redactor  of  this 
Fable,  and  the  happiest  ; whose  work  had  superseded  and  ob- 
literated all  preceding  ones  whatsoever  ; but  nowise  to  be  the 
inventor  thereof,  who  must  be  sought  for  in  a much  remoter 
period.  There  are  even  two  printed  versions  of  the  Tale,  prior 
in  date  to  this  of  Liibeck  : a Dutch  one,  at  Delft,  in  1484  ; and 
one  by  Caxton  in  English,  in  1481,  which  seems  to  be  the 
earliest  of  all. 1 • These  two  differ  essentially  from  Hinrek's  ; 

1 Caxton’s  Edition,  a copy  of  which  is  in  the  British  Museum,  hears 
title  : History e of  Reynart  the  Foxe ; and  begins  thus  : ‘ It  was  aboute 
‘ the  tyme  of  Pentecoste  or  Whytsontyde  that  the  wodes  coniynlv  be 
‘ lusty  and  gladsome,  and  the  trees  clad  with  levys  and  blossoms,  and 
‘ the  grounds  with  herbes  and  flowers  sweete  smellyng  ; ’ — where,  as  in 
many  other  passages,  the  fact  that  Caxton  and  Alkmer  had  the  same 
original  before  them  is  manifest  enough.  Our  venerable  Printer  says  in 
conclusion:  ‘I  have  not  added  ne  mynnsslied  but  have  followed  as 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


51 


still  more  so  does  the  French  Roman  du  nouveau  Renard,  com- 
posed ‘ by  Jacquemars  Gielee  at  Lisle,  about  the  year  1290,’ 
■which  yet  exists  in  manuscript  : however,  they  sufficiently 
verify  that  statement,  by  some  supposed  to  be  feigned,  of  the 
German  redactor’s  having-  ‘ sought  and  rendered  ’ his  work 
from  the  Walloon  and  French  ; in  which  latter  tongue,  as  we 
shall  soon  see,  some  shadow  of  it  had  been  known  and  popu- 
lar, long  centuries  before  that  time.  For  besides  Gielee’s 
work,  we  have  a Renard  Couronne  of  still  earlier,  a Renard 
Contrefait  of  somewhat  later  date  : and  Chroniclers  inform  us 
that,  at  the  noted  Festival  given  by  Philip  the  Fair,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  among  the  dramatic  en- 
tertainments, was  a whole  Life  of  Reynard  ; wherein  it  must 
not  surprise  us  that  he  ‘ ended  by  becoming  Pope,  and  still, 
under  the  Tiara,  continued  to  eat  poultry.’  Nay,  curious  in- 
quirers have  discovered,  on  the  French  and  German  borders, 
some  vestige  of  the  Story  even  in  Carlovingian  times  ; which, 
indeed,  again  makes  it  a German  original : they  will  have  it 
that  a certain  Reinliard,  or  Reinecke,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  who, 
in  the  ninth  century,  by  his  craft  and  exhaustless  stratagems 
worked  strange  mischief  in  that  region,  many  times  overreach- 
ing Ring  Zwentibald  himself,  and  at  last,  in  his  stronghold  of 
Durfos,  proving  impregnable  to  him, — had  in  satirical  songs 
of  that  period  been  celebrated  as  a fox,  as  Reinliard  the  Fox, 
and  so  given  rise  afar  off  to  this  Apologue,  at  least  to  the  title 
of  it.  The  name  Isegrim,  as  applied  to  the  Wolf,  these  same 
speculators  deduce  from  an  Austrian  Count  Isengrin,  who, 
in  those  old  days,  had  revolted  against  Kaiser  Arnulph,  and 
otherwise  exhibited  too  wolfish  a disposition.  Certain  it  is, 
at  least,  that  both  designations  were  in  universal  use  during 
the  twelfth  century  ; they  occur,  for  example,  in  one  of  the 
two  sirventes  which  our  Cceur-de  Lion  has  left  us  : ‘Ye  have 
promised  me  fidelity,’  says  he,  ‘but  ye  have  kept  it  as  the 

‘ nyghe  as  I can  my  copye  wliycli  was  in  dutclie  ; and  by  me  Willm 
‘ Caxton  translated  in  to  this  rude  and  symple  engdyssli  in  tliabbey  of 
‘ Westminster,  and  fynnyshed  the  vi  daye  of  Juyn  the  yere  of  our  lord 
‘1481,  the  21  yere  of  the  regne  of  Kvnge  Edward  the  iiijth.’ 


52 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Wolf  did  to  the  Fox,’  as  Isangrin  did  to  Reinhart.'  Nay,  per- 
haps the  ancient  circulation  of  some  such  Song  or  Tale, 
among  the  French,  is  best  of  all  evinced  by  the  fact  that  this 
same  Reinhart,  or  Renard,  is  still  the  only  word  in  their  lan- 
guage for  Fox  ; and  thus,  strangely  enough,  the  Proper  may 
have  become  an  Appellative  ; and  sly  Duke  Reinhart,  at  an 
era  when  the  French  tongue  was  first  evolving  itself  from  the 
rubbish  of  Latin  and  German,  have  insinuated  his  name  into 
Natural  as  well  as  Political  History. 

From  all  which,  so  much  at  least  would  appear  : That  the 
Fable  of  Reynard  the  Fox,  which  in  the  German  version  we 
behold  completed,  nowise  derived  its  completeness  from  the 
individual  there  named  Hinrek  van  Allcmer,  or  from  any  other 
individual  or  people  ; but  rather,  that  being  in  old  times 
universally  current,  it  was  taken  up  by  poets  and  satirists  of 
all  countries  ; from  each  received  some  accession  or  improve- 
ment ; and  properly  has  no  single  author.  We  must  observe, 
however,  that  as  yet  it  had  attained  no  fixation  or  consistency  ; 
no  version  was  decidedly  preferred  to  every  other.  Caxton’s  and 
the  Dutch  appear,  at  best,  but  as  the  skeleton  of  wliat  after- 
wards became  a body  ; of  the  old  Walloon  version,  said  to  have 
been  discovered  lately,  we  are  taught  to  entertain  a similar 
opinion  : 2 in  the  existing  French  versions,  which  are  all  older', 
either  in  Gielee’s  or  in  the  others,  there  is  even  less  analogy. 
Loosely  conjoined,  therefore,  and  only  in  the  state  of  dry 
bones,  was  it  that  Hinrek,  or  Nicolaus,  or  some  Lower-Saxon 
whoever  he  might  be,  found  the  story ; and  blowing  on  it 
with  the  breath  of  genius,  raised  it  up  into  a consistent  Fable. 
Many  additions  and  some  exclusions  he  must  have  made ; 
was  probably  enough  assisted  by  personal  experience  of  a 
Court,  whether  that  of  Juliers  or  some  other  ; perhaps  also 
he  admitted  personal  allusions,  and  doubtless  many  an  oblique 
glance  at  existing  things  : and  thus  was  produced  the  Low- 
German  Reineke  de  Fos  ; which  version,  shortly  after  its  ap- 
pearance, had  extinguished  all  the  rest,  and  come  to  be  what 

} Fidget  (iii.  31),  wlto  quotes  tlie  Histoire  Littemire  des  Troubadours,  t.i. 
p.  63. 

2 See  Sclieller  : Reineke  de  Fos,  To  Brunsicyk,  1825  ; Vorrede. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


53 


it  still  is,  tlie  sole  veritable  representative  of  Reynard,  inas- 
much as  all  subsequent  translations  and  editions  have  derived 
themselves  from  it. 

The  farther  history  of  Reinecke  is  easily  traced.  In  this 
new  guise,  it  spread  abroad  over  all  the  world,  with  a scarcely 
exampled  rapidity ; fixing  itself  also  as  a firm  possession  in 
most  countries,  where,  indeed,  in  this  character,  we  still  find 
it.  It  was  printed  and  rendered,  innumerable  times  : in  the 
original  dialect  alone,  the  last  Editor  has  reckoned  up  more 
than  twenty  Editions  ; on  one  of  which,  for  example,  we  find 
such  a name  as  that  of  Heinrich  Voss.  It  was  first  translated 
into  High-German  in  1545  ; into  Latin  in  1567,  by  Hartmann 
Schopper,  whose  smooth  style  and  rough  fortune  keep  him  in 
memory  with  Scholars : 1 a new  version  into  short  German 
verse  appeared  next  century ; in  our  own  times,  Goethe  has 
not  disdained  to  reproduce  it,  by  means  of  his  own,  in  a third 
shape  : of  Soltau’s  version,  into  literal  doggerel,  we  have  al- 
ready testified.  Long  generations  before,  it  had  been  manu- 
factured into  Prose,  for  the  use  of  the  people,  and  was  sold 

1 While  engaged  in  this  Translation,  at  Freiburg  in  Baden,  he  was  im- 
pressed as  a soldier,  and  carried,  apparently  in  fetters,  to  Vienna,  having 
given  his  work  to  another  to  finish.  At  Vienna  he  stood  not  long  in  the 
ranks;  having  fallen  violently  sick,  and  being  thrown  out  in  the  streets 
to  recover  there.  He  says,  ‘ he  was  without  bed,  and  had  to  seek  quar- 
ters on  the  muddy  pavement  in  a Barrel.’  Here  too,  in  the  night,  some 
excessively  straitened  individual  stole  from  him  his  cloak  and  sabre. 
However,  men  were  not  all  hvsenas  : one  Josias  Hufnagel,  unknown  to 
him,  but  to  whom  by  his  writings  he  was  known,  took  him  under  his 
roof,  procured  medical  assistance,  equipped  him  anew ; so  that  ‘ in  the 
‘ harvest-season,  being  half-cured,  he  could  return  or  rather  recrawl  to 
‘Frankfort  on  the  Mayn.’  There  too  ‘a  Magister  Johann  Cuipius, 
* Christian  Egenolph’s  son-in-law,  kindly  received  him,’  and  encouraged 
him  to  finish  his  Translation  ; as  accordingly  he  did,  dedicating  it  to  the 
Emperor,  with  doleful  complaints,  fruitless  or  not  is  unknown.  For 
now  poor  Hartmann,  no  longer  an  Autobiographer,  quite  vanishes,  and 
we  can  understand  only  that  he  laid  his  wearied  back  one  day  in  a most 
still  bed,  where  the  blanket  of  the  Night  softly  enwrapped  him  and  all 

his  woes. -His  Book  is  entitled  Opus  poeticum  de  admirabili  Falladd 

et  Astutid  Vulperulce  ReineJccs,  &c.  &c.  ; and  in  the  Dedication  and 
Preface  contains  all  these  details. 


51 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


on  stalls  ; where  still,  with  the  needful  changes  in  spelling, 
and  printed  on  grayest  paper,  it  tempts  the  speculative  eye. 

Thus  has  our  old  Fable,  rising  like  some  Biver  in  the  re- 
mote distance,  from  obscure  rivulets,  gathered  strength  out 
of  every  valley,  out  of  every  country,  as  it  rolled  on.  It  is 
European  in  two  senses ; for  as  all  Europe  contributed  to  it, 
so  all  Europe  has  enjoyed  it.  Among  the  Germans,  Reineclce 
Fuchs  was  long  a House-book  and  universal  Best-companion  • 
it  has  been  lectured  on  in  the  Universities,  quoted  in  Im- 
perial Council -halls  ; it  lay  on  the  toilette  of  Princesses  ; and 
was  thumbed  to  pieces  on  the  bench  of  the  Artisan  ; we  hear 
of  grave  men  ranking  it  only  nest  to  the  Bible.  Neither,  as 
we  said,  was  its  popularity  confined  to  home  ; Translations 
erelong  appeared  in  French,  Italian,  Danish,  Swedish,  Dutch, 
English : 1 nor  was  that  same  stall-honour,  which  has  been 
reckoned  the  truest  literary  celebrity,  refused  it  here  ; per- 
haps many  a reader  of  these  pages  may,  like  the  writer  of 
them,  recollect  the  hours,  when,  hidden  from  unfeeling  gaze  of 
pedagogue,  he  swallowed  The  most  pleasant  and  delightful  His- 
tory of  Reynard  the  Fox,  like  stolen  waters,  with  a timorous  joy. 

So  much  for  the  outward  fortunes  of  this  remarkable  Book. 
It  comes  before  us  with  a character  such  as  can  belong  only 
to  a very  few  ; that  of  being  a true  World’s-Book,  which 
through  centuries  was  everywhere  at  home,  the  spirit  of 
which  diffused  itself  into  all  languages  and  all  minds.  These 
quaint  iEsopic  figures  have  painted  themselves  in  innumera- 
able  heads  ; that  rough,  deeply-lying  humour  has  been  the 

1 Besides  Gaston’s  orignal,  of  which  little  is  known  among  ns  hut  the 
name,  we  have  two  versions  ; one  in  1667,  ‘ with  excellent  Morals  and 
Expositions,’  which  was  reprinted  in  1681,  and  followed  in  1684- by  a 
Continuation,  called  tj*/e  Shifts  of  Reynardine  the  son  of  Reynard,  of 
English  growth  ; another  in  1708,  slightly  altered  from  the  former,  ex- 
plaining what  appears  doubtful  or  allegorical ; ‘ it  being  originally  writ- 
‘ ten,’  says  the  brave  Editor  elsewhere,  * by  an  eminent  Statesman  of  the 
‘ German  Empire,  to  show  some  Men  their  Follies,  and  correct  the  Tices 
‘ of  the  Times  he  lived  in.’  Not  only  Reynardine,  but  a second  Appen- 
dix, Gawood  the  Rook,  appears  here  ; also  there  are  ‘ curious  Devices,  or 
Pictures.’ — Of  Editions  ‘printed  for  the  Flying-Stationers’  we  say 
nothing. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


55 


laughter  of  many  generations.  So  that,  at  worst,  we  must 
regard  this  Reinecke  as  an  ancient  Idol,  once  worshipped,  and 
still  interesting  for  that  circumstance,  were  the  sculpture  never 
so  rude.  We  can  love  it,  moreover,  as  being  indigenous, 
wholly  of  our  own  creation  : it  sprang  up  from  European  sense 
and  character,  and  was  a faithful  type  and  organ  of  these. 

But  independently  of  all  extrinsic  considerations,  this  Fable 
of  Reinecke  may  challenge  a judgment  on  its  own  merits. 
Cunningly  constructed,  and  not  without  a true  poetic  life,  we 
must  admit  it  to  be  : great  power  of  conception  and  inven- 
tion, great  pictorial  fidelity,  a warm,  sunny  tone  of  colouring, 
are  manifest  enough.  It  is  full  of  broad  rustic  mirth  ; inex- 
haustible in  comic  devices  ; a World-Saturnalia,  where  Wolves 
tonsured  into  Monks,  and  nigh  starved  by  short  commons, 
Foxes  pilgriming  to  Borne  for  absolution,  Cocks  pleading  at 
the  judgment-bar,  make  strange  mummery.  Nor  is  this  wild 
Parody  of  Human  Life  without  its  meaning  and  moral : it  is 
an  air-pageant  from  Fancy’s  dream-grotto,  yet  wisdom  lurks 
in  it  ; as  we  gaze,  the  vision  becomes  poetic  and  prophetic. 
A true  Irony  must  have  dwelt  in  the  Poet’s  heart  and  head  ; 
here,  under  grotesque  shadows,  he  gives  us  the  sadder  picture 
of  Beality  ; yet  for  us  without  sadness  ; his  figures  mask  them- 
selves in  uncouth,  bestial  vizards,  and  enact,  gambolling  ; their 
Tragedy  dissolves  into  sardonic  grins.  He  has  a deep,  heart- 
felt Humour,  sporting  with  the  world  and  its  evils  in  kind 
mockery : this  is  the  poetic  soul,  round  which  the  outward 
material  has  fashioned  itself  into  living  coherence.  And  so, 
in  that  rude  old  Apologue,  we  have  still  a mirror,  though  now 
tarnished  and  timeworn,  of  true  magic  reality  ; and  can  dis- 
cern there,  in  cunning  reflex,  some  image  both  of  our  destiny 
and  of  our  duty  : for  now,  as  then,  Prudence  is  the  only  virtue 
sure  of  its  reward,  and  Cunning  triumphs  where  Honesty  is 
worsted  ; and  now,  as  then,  it  is  the  wise  man’s  part  to  know 
this,  and  cheerfully  look  for  it,  and  cheerfully  defy  it : 

TJt  vulpis  adulatio 

Here  through  his  own  world  moveth, 

Sic  Jwminis  et  ratio 

Iviost  like  to  Reynard's  provetli. 


56 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


Ut  mipis  aclulatio 
Nu  in  de  werlde  blikket : 

Sic  horninis  et  ratio 

Gelyk  dem  Eos  sik  shiklcet. 

Motto  to  Reineke. 

If  Reinecke  is  nowise  a perfect  Comic  Epos,  it  has  various 
features  of  such,  and  above  all,  a genuine  Epic  spirit,  which  is 
the  rarest  feature. 

Of  the  Eable,  and  its  incidents  and  structure,  it  is  perhaps 
superfluous  to  offer  any  sketch ; to  most  readers  the  whole 
may  be  already  familiar.  How  Noble,  King  of  the  Beasts, 
holding  a solemn  Court  one  Whitsuntide,  is  deafened  on  all 
hands  with  complaints  against  Keinecke ; Hinze  the  Cat, 
Lampe  the  Hare,  Isegrim  the  Wolf,  with  innumerable  others, 
having  suffered  from  his  villany,  Isegrim  especially,  in  a point 
which  most  keenly  touches  honour ; nay,  Chanticleer  the 
Cock  ( Henning  de  Hane),  amid  bitterest  wail,  appearing  even 
with  the  corpus  delicti , the  body  of  one  of  his  children,  whom 
that  arch-knave  has  feloniously  murdered  with  intent  to  eat 
How  his  indignant  Majesty  thereupon  despatches  Bruin  the 
Bear  to  cite  the  delinquent  in  the  King’s  name  ; how  Brain, 
inveigled  into  a Honey-expedition,  returns  without  his  errand, 
without  his  ears,  almost  without  his  life  ; Hinze  the  Cat,  in  a 
subsequent  expedition,  faring  no  better.  How  at  last  Bei- 
necke,  that  he  may  not  have  to  stand  actual  siege  in  his  fort- 
ress of  Malapertus,  does  appear  for  trial,  and  is  about  to  be 
hanged,  but  on  the  gallows-ladder  makes  a speech  unrivalled 
in  forensic  eloquence,  and  saves  his  life  ; nay,  having  incident- 
ally hinted  at  some  Treasures,  the  hiding-place  of  which  is 
well  known  to  him,  rises  into  high  favour ; is  permitted  to 
depart  on  that  pious  pilgrimage  to  Borne  he  has  so  much  at 
heart,  and  furnished  even  with  shoes,  cut  from  the  living  hides 
of  Isegrim  and  Isegrim’s  much-injured  spouse,  his  worst  ene- 
mies. How,  the  Treasures  not  making  their  appearance,  but 
only  new  misdeeds,  he  is  again  haled  to  judgment ; again 
glozes  the  general  ear  with  sweetest  speeches  ; at  length,  being 
challenged  to  it,  fights  Isegrim  in  knightly  tourney,  and  by 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


57 


the  cunningest,  though  the  most  unchivalrous  method,  not  to 
be  further  specified  in  polite  writing,  carries  off  a complete 
victory  ; and  having  thus,  by  wager  of  battle,  manifested  his 
innocence,  is  overloaded  with  royal  favour,  created  Chancellor, 
and  Pilot  to  weather  the  Storm  ; and  so,  in  universal  honour 
and  authority,  reaps  the  fair  fruit  of  his  gifts  and  labour’s  : 

Whereby  shall  each  to  wisdom  turn, 

Evil  eschew  and  virtue  learn, 

Therefore  was  this  same  story  wrote, 

That  is  its  aim,  and  other  not. 

This  Book  for  little  price  is  sold, 

But  image  clear  of  world  doth  hold  ; 

Whoso  into  the  world  would  look, 

My  counsel  is, — he  buy  this  book. 

So  endeth  Reynard  Fox’s  story  : 

God  help  us  all  to  heavenly  glory  ! 

It  lias  been  objected  that  the  Animals  in  Reineeke  are  not 
Animals,  but  Men  disguised  ; to  which  objection,  except  in  so 
far  as  grounded  on  the  necessary  indubitable  fact  that  this  is 
an  Apologue  or  emblematic  Fable,  and  no  Chapter  of  ’Natural 
History,  we  cannot  in  any  considerable  degree  accede.  Nay, 
that  very  contrast  between  Object  and  Effort,  where  the 
Passions  of  men  develop  themselves  on  the  Interests  of  ani- 
mals, and  the  whole  is  huddled  together  in  chaotic  mockery, 
is  a main  charm  of  the  picture.  For  the  rest,  we  should 
rather  say,  these  bestial  characters  were  moderately  well  sus- 
tained : the  vehement,  futile  vociferation  of  Chanticleer  ; the 
hysterical  promptitude,  and  earnest  profession  and  protesta- 
tion of  poor  Larnpe  the  Hare  ; the  thickheaded  ferocity  of 
Isegrim  ; the  sluggish,  gluttonous  opacity  of  Bruin’ ; above 
all,  the  craft,  the  tact  and  inexhaustible  knavish  adroitness  of 
Reineeke  himself,  are  in  strict  accuracy  of  costume.  Often_ 
also  their  situations  and  occupations  are  bestial  enough. 
What  quantities  of  bacon  and  other  proviant  do  Isegrim  and 
Reineeke  forage  ; Reineeke  contributing  the  scheme,— for  the 
two  were  then  in  partnership, — and  Isegrim  paying  the  shot 


58 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


in  broken  bones  ! Wliat  more  characteristic  than  the  fate  of 
Bruin,  when  ill-counselled,  he  introduces  his  stupid  head  into 
Rustefill’s  half-split  log  ; has  the  wedges  whisked  away,  and 
stands  clutched  there,  as  in*  a rice,  and  uselessly  roaring  ; 
disappointed  of  honey,  sure  only  of  a beating  without  paral- 
lel ! Not  to  forget  the  Mare,  whom,  addressing  her  by  the 
title  of  Goodwife,  with  all  politeness,  Isegrim,  sore-pinched 
with  hunger,  asks  whether  she  will  sell  her  foal : she  answers, 
that  the  price  is  written  on  her  hinder  hoof  ; which  document 
the  intending  purchaser,  being  ‘ an  Erfurt  graduate,’  declares 
his  full  ability  to  read ; but  finds  there  no  wilting,  or  print, — 
save  only  the  print  of  six  horsenails  on  his  own  mauled  visage. 
And  abundance  of  the  like  ; sufficient  to  excuse  our  old  Epos 
on  this  head,  or  altogether  justify  it.  Another  objection, 
that,  namely,  which  points  to  the  great  and  excessive  coarse- 
ness of  the  work  here  and  there,  it  cannot  so  readily  turn 
aside  ; being  indeed  rude,  old-fashioned,  and  homespun,  apt 
even  to  draggle  in  the  mire  : neither  are  its  occasional  dul- 
ness  and  tediousness  to  be  denied  ; but  only  to  be  set  against 
its  frequent  terseness  and  strength,  and  pardoned  as  the 
product  of  poor  humanity,  from  whose  hands  nothing,  not 
even  a Reineke  de  Fos,  comes  perfect. 

He  who  would  read,  and  still  understand  this  old  Apo- 
logue, must  apply  to  Goethe,  whose  version,  for  poetical  use, 
we  have  found  infinitely  the  best ; like  some  copy  of  an 
ancient,  bedimmed,  half-obliterated  woodcut,  but  new-done 
on  steel,  on  India-paper,  with  all  manner  of  graceful  yet  ap- 
propriate appendages.  Nevertheless,  the  old  Low-German 
original  has  also  a certain  charm,  and  simply  as  the  original, 
would  claim  some  notice.  It  is  reckoned  greatly  the  best 
performance  that  was  ever  brought  out  in  that  dialect ; inter- 
esting, moreover,  in  a philological  point  of  view,  especially  to 
us  English  ; being  properly  the  language  of  our  old  Saxon 
Fatherland  ; and  still  curiously  like  oiu-  own,  though  the  two, 
for  some  twelve  centuries,  have  had  no  brotherly  communica- 
tion. One  short  specimen,  with  the  most  verbal  .translation, 
we  shall  insert  here,  and  then  have  done  with  Reinedce : 


3ARLT  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


59 


‘ De  Greving  was  Reiuken  broder’s  sone, 

The  Badger  was  Reinke's  brother's  son, 

De  sprat  do,  un  was  ser  kone. 

He  spoke  there,-  and  was  (sore)  very  (keen)  bold. 

He  forantworde  in  dem  Hove  den  Fos, 

He  ( for-answered ) defended  in  the  Court  the  Fox, 

De  dog  was  ser  falsh  un  lcs. 

That  (though)  yet  was  very  false  and  loose. 

He  sprak  to  deme  Wulve  also  ford: 

He  spoke  to  the  Wolf  so  forth  : 

Here  Isegrim,  it  is  ein  oldspriiken  word, 

Master  Isegrim,  it  is  an  old-spoken  word, 

Des  fyendes  mund  shaffet  selden  from  ! 

The  (fiend's)  enemy's  mouth  (shapeth)  bringeth  seldom  advantage ! 
So  do  ji  ok  by  Reinken,  minem  om. 

So  do  ye  (eke)  too  by  Reinke,  mine  (erne)  unde. 

Were  lie  so  wol  alse  ji  liyr  to  Hove, 

Were  he  as  well  as  ye  here  at  Court, 

Un  stunde  lie  also  in  des  Koninge's  love, 

And  stopd  he  so  in  the  King' s favour. 

Here  Isegrim,  alse  ji  dot, 

Master  Isegrim,  as  ye  do, 

It  sholde  ju  nigt  diinken  god, 

It  should  you  not  (think)  seem  good, 

Dat  ji  en  hyr  alsus  forspriiken 
That  ye  him  here  so  for spalce 
Un  de  olden  stiikke  hyr  forraken. 

And  the  old  tricks  here  forth-raked. 

Men  dat  kwerde,  dat  ji  Reinken  havven  gedan, 

But  the  ill  that  ye  Reinke  have  done, 

Dat  late  ji  al  agter  stan. 

That  let  ye  all  (after  stand)  stand  by. 

It  is  nog  etliken  lieren  wol  kund, 

It  is  yet  to  some  gentlemen  well  known, 

Wo  ji  mid  Reinken  maken  den  ferbund, 

How  ye  with  Reinke  made  (bond)  alliance, 

Un  wolden  wiiren  twe  like  gesellen  : 

And  would  be  two  (like)  equal  partners  : 

Dat  mot  ik  dirren  heren  fortallen. 

That  mote  I these  gentlemen  forth-tell. 

Wente  Reinke,  myn  cm  in  wintersnod, 

Since  Reinke,  mine  uncle,  in  winter' s-need, 

Umme  Isegrim's  willen,  fylna  was  dod. 

For  Isegrim's  (will)  sake,  full-nigh  was  dead. 

Wente  it  geshag  dat  ein  kwam  gefaren, 


60 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


For  it  chanced  that  one  mme  (faring)  driving , 

De  liadde  grote  fislie  up  ener  karen : 

Who  had  many  fishes  upon  a car  : 

Isegrim  liadde  geren  der  fislie  gehaled, 

Isegrim  had  fain  the  fishes  (have  haled)  have  got, 

Men  he  liadde  nigt,  darmid  se  Worden  hetaled. 

Bat  he  lmd  not  wherewith  they  should  be  (betold)  paid. 
He  bragte  rninen  om  in  de  grote  nod, 

He  brought  mine  uncle  into  great  ( need)  straits, 

Urn  sinen  willen  ging  he  liggen  for  dod, 

For  his  sake  went  he  to  (lig)  lie  for  dead, 

Regt  in  den  wag,  nn  stund  aventur. 

Right  in  the  way,  and  stood  (adventure)  chance. 
Market,  worden  em  ok  de  fishe  sur  ? 

Mark,  were  him  eke  the  fishes  (sour)  dear-bought? 

Do  jenne  mid  der  kare  gefaren  kwam 
When  (yond)  he  with  the  cur  driving  came 
Un  minen  6m  darsiilvest  fornem, 

And  mine  unde  (there-self)  even  there  perceived, 
Hastigen  tog  he  syn  swerd  un  snel, 

Hastily  (took)  drew  he  his  sword  and  (sncll)  quick, 

Un  wolde  mineme  ome  torriikken  en  fel. 

And  would  my  uncle  ( tatter  in  fell)  tear  in  pieces. 

Men  he  rogede  sik  nigt  klen  nog  grot ; 

But  he  stirred  himself  not  (little  nor  great)  more  or  less 
Do  mende  he  dat  he  were  dod  ; 

Then  ( meaned ) thought  he  that  he  teas  dead  ; 

He  lade  on  up  de  kar,  und  dayte  en  to  lillen, 

He  laid  him  upon  the  car,  and  thought  him  to  skin, 
Dat  wagede  he  all  dorg  Isegrim's  willen ! 

That  risked  he  all  through  Isegrim’s  will ! 

Do  he  fordan  begunde  to  faren, 

When  he  f orth-on  began  to  fare, 

Warp  Reinke  etlike  fishe  fan  der  karen, 

Cast  Reinke  some  fishes  from  the  car, 

Isegrim  fan  ferae  agteona  kwam 
Isegrim  from  far  after  came 
Un  derre  fishe  al  to  sik  nam. 

And  these  fishes  all  to  himself  took. 

Reinke  sprang  wedder  fan  der  karen  ; 

Reinke  sprang  again  f rom  the  car  ; 

Em  liistede  to  nigt  longer  to  faren. 

Him  listed  not  longer  to  fare. 

He  liadde  ok  gerne  der  fishe  begerd, 

He  (had)  would  have  also  fain  of  the  fishes  required. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


61 


Men  Isegrim  hadde  se  alle  forterd. 

But  Isegrim  had  them  all  consumed. 

He  had  de  geten  dat  he  wolde  barsten, 

He  had  eaten  so  that  he  would  burst , 

Un  moste  darumme  gen  torn  arsten. 

And  must  thereby  go  to  the  doctor. 

Do  Isegrim  der  graden  nigt  en  mogte, 

As  Isegrim  the  fish-bones  not  liked , 

Der  siiWen  he  em  ein  weinig  brogte. 

Of  these  {self)  same  he  him  a Uttle  brought.' 

Wlierebj  it  would  appear,  if  we  are  to  believe  Grimbart  the 
Badger,  that  Reinecke  was  not  only  the  cheater  in  this  case, 
but  also  the  cheatee  : however,  he  makes  matters  straight  again 
in  that  other  noted  fish-expedition,  where  Isegrim,  minded  not 
to  steal  but  to  catch  fish,  and  having  no  fishing-tackle,  by 
Reinecke’s  advice  inserts  his  tail  into  the  lake,  in  winter- 
season  ; but  before  the  promised  string  of  trouts,  all  hooked 
to  one  another  and  to  him,  will  bite, — is  frozen  in,  and  left 
there  to  his  own  bitter  meditations. 

We  here  take  leave  of  Reineke  de  Fos,  and  of  the  whole 
iEsopic  genus,  of  which  it  is  almost  the  last,  and  by  far  the 
most  remarkable  example.  The  Age  of  Apologue,  like  that 
of  Chivalry  and  Love-singing,  is  gone  ; for  nothing  in  this 
Earth  has  continuance.  If  we  ask,  Where  are  now  our 
People’s-Books  ? the  answer  might  give  room  for  reflections. 
Hinrek  van  Alkmer  has  passed  away,  and  Dr.  Birkbeck  has 
risen  in  his  room.  What  good  and  evil  lie  in  that  little  sen- 
tence ! — But  doubtless  the  day  is  coming  when  what  is  want- 
ing here  will  be  supplied  ; when  as  the  Logical,  so  likewise 
the  Poetical  susceptibility  and  faculty  of  the  people, — their 
Fancy,  Humour,  Imagination,  wherein  lie  the  main  elements 
of  spiritual  life,— will  do  longer  be  left  uncultivated,  barren, 
or  bearing  ouly  spontaneous  thistles,  but  in  new  and  finer 
harmony  with  an  improved  Understanding,  will  flourish  in 
new  vigour  ; and  in  our  inward  world  there  will  again  be  a 
sunny  Firmament  and  verdant  Earth,  as  well  as  a Pantry  and 
culinary  Fire  ; and  men  will  learn  not  only  to  recapitulate 


62 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


and  compute,  but  to  worship,  to  love ; in  tears  or  in  laughter, 
hold  mystical  as  well  as  logical  communion  with  the  high  and 
the  low  of  this  wondrous  Universe  ; and  read,  as  they  should 
live,  with  their  whole  being.  Of  which  glorious  consumma- 
tion there  is  at  all  times,  seeing  these  endowments  are  inde- 
structible, nay  essentially  supreme  in  man,  the  firmest  ulterior 
certainty,  but,  for  the  present,  only  faint  prospects  and  far- 
off  indications.  Time  brings  Roses ! 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


About  the  jrear  1757,  a certain  antiquarian  tendency  in  literature,  a 
fonder,  more  earnest  looking  hack  into  the  Past,  began  to  manifest  it- 
self in  all  nations.  Growth  and  fruit  of  this  tendency  in  Germany. 
The  Nibelungen,  a kind  of  rude  German  Epos : It  belongs  specially  "to 
us  English  Teutones,  as  well  as  to  the  German.  Northern  Archaeology, 
a chaos  of  immeasurable  shadows:  The  Heldenbuch,  the  most  important 
of  these  subsidiary  Fictions  ; and  throwing  some  little  light  on  the 
Nibelungen : Outline  of-  the  Story.  Early  adventures  of  the  brave  Sieg- 
fried, whose  history  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  whole  Northern  Traditions  : 
His  Invulnerability,  wonderful  Sword  Balmung,  and  Cloak  of  Dark- 
ness: His  subsequent  history  belongs  to  the  Song  of  the  Nibelungen. 
(p.  65).- — Singular;poetic  excellence  of  that  old  Epic  Song : Simplicity, 
and  clear  decisive  ring  of  its  language  : Deeds  of  high  temper,  harsh 
self-denial,  daring  and  death,  stand  embodied  in  soft,  quick-flowing, 
joyfully -modulated  verse  : AYonderful  skill  in  the  construction  of  the 
story ; and  the  healthy  subordination  of  the  marvellous  to  the  actual. 
Abstract  of  the  Poem, — How  Siegfried  wooed  and  won  the  beautiful 
Chriemhild  ; and  how  marvellously  he  vanqttislied  the  Amazonian 
Brunhild  for  king  Gunther : Heyday  of  peace  and  gladdest  sunshine. 
Jealousy  of  queen  Brunhild  : how  the  two  queens  rated  oue  another  ; 
and  how  Chriemhild  extinguished  Brunhild.  Brunhild  in  black  revenge 
gets  Siegfried  murdered  : Unhapjiy  Chriemhild,  her  husband’s  grave 
is  all  that  remains  to  her : Her  terrible  doomsday  vengeance.  (82). 
— Antiquarian  researches  into  the  origin  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied:  His- 
torical coincidences.  The  oldest  Tradition,  and  the  oldest  Poem  of 
Modern  Europe.  Who  the  gifted  Singer  may  have  been,  remains  alto- 
gether dark : The  whole  spirit  of  Chivalry,  of  Love  and  heroic  Valour, 
must  have  lived  in  him  and  inspired  him  : A true  old  Singer,  taught  of 
Nature  herself ! (112). 


THE 


MEBELTTN G-EN  LIED.1 


[1831.] 

In  the  year  1757,  the  Swiss  Professor  Bodmer  printed  an 
ancient  poetical  manuscript,  under  the  title  of  Chriemhilden 
Rache  unci  die  Klage  (Chriemhilde’s  Bevenge,  and  the  La- 
ment) ; which  may  be  considered  as  the  first  of  a series,  or 
stream  of  publications  and  speculations  still  rolling  on,  with 
increased  current,  to  the  present  day.  Not,  indeed,  that  all 
these  had  their  source  or  determining  cause  hi  so  insignifi- 
cant a circumstance  ; their  source,  or  rather  thousand  sources, 
lay  far  elsewdiere.  As  has  often  been  remarked,  a certain 
antiquarian  tendency  in  literature,  a fonder,  more  earnest 
looking  back  into  the  Past,  began  about  that  time  to  manifest 
itself  in  all  nations  (witness  our  own  Percy’s  Reliques ) : this 
was  among  the  first  distinct  symptoms  of  it  in  Germany  ; 
where,  as  with  ourselves,  its  manifold  effects  are  still  visible 
enough. 

Some  fifteen  years  after  Bodmer’s  publication,  which,  for 
the  rest,  is  not  celebrated  as  an  editorial  feat,  one  C.  H. 
Muller  undertook  a Collection  of  German  Poems  from  the 
Twelfth,  Thirteenth  and  Fourteenth  Centuries  ; wherein,  among 
other  articles,  he  reprinted  Bodmer’s  Chriemhilde  and  Klage, 
with  a highly  remarkable  addition  prefixed  to  the  former, 
essential  indeed  to  the  right  understanding  of  it ; and  the 
whole  now  stood  before  the  world  as  one  Poem,  under  the 
name  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  or  Lay  of  the  Nibelungen.  It 
has  since  been  ascertained  that  the  Klage  is  a foreign  inferior 

‘Westminster  Review,  No.  29 .—Das  Nibelungen  Lied , ubersetzt 
von  Karl  Simrock  (The  Nibelungen  Lied,  translated  by  Karl  Simrock). 
2 vols.,  12mo.  Berlin,  1827. 

5 


66 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


appendage  ; at  best,  related  only  as  epilogue  to  the  main 
work  : meanwhile  out  of  this  Nibelungen,  such  as  it  was,  there 
soon  proceeded  new  inquiries,  and  kindred  enterprises.  For 
much  as  the  Poem,  in  the  shape  it  here  bore,  was  defaced 
and  marred,  it  failed  not  to  attract  observation  : to  all  open- 
minded  lovers  of  poetry,  especially  where  a strong  patriotic 
feeling  existed,  the  singular  antique  Nibelungen  was  an  inter- 
esting appearance.  Johannes  Muller,  in  his  famous  Swiss 
History,  spoke  of  it  in  warm  terms  : subsequently,  August 
Wilhelm  Schlegel,  through  the  medium  of  the  Deutsche 
Museum,  succeeded  in  awakening  something  like  a universal 
popular  feeling  on  the  subject ; and,  as  a natural  consequence, 
a whole  host  of  Editors  and  Critics,  of  deep  and  of  shallow 
endeavour,  whose  labours  we  yet  see  in  progress.  The  Nibe- 
lungen has  now  been  investigated,  translated,  collated,  com- 
mented upon,  with  more  or  less  result,  to  almost  boundless 
lengths  : besides  the  Work  named  at  the  head  of  this  Paper 
and  which  stands  there  simply  as  one  of  the  latest,  we  have 
Versions  into  the  modern  tongue  by  Von  der  Hagen,  by  Hins- 
berg,  Lachmann,  Biisching,  Zeune,  the  last  in  Prose,  and  said 
to  be  worthless  ; Criticisms,  Introductions,  Keys,  and  so  forth, 
by  innumerable  others,  of  whom  we  mention  only  Docen  and 
the  Brothers  Grimm. 

By  which  means,  not  only  has  the  Poem  itself  been  eluci- 
dated with  all  manner  of  researches,  but  its  whole  environ- 
ment has  come  forth  in  new  light : the  scene  and  personages 
it  relates  to,  the  other  fictions  and  traditions  connected  with 
it,  have  attained  a new  importance  and  coherence.  Manu- 
scripts, that  for  ages  had  lain  dormant,  have  issued  from  their 
archives  into  public  view  ; books  that  had  circulated  only  in 
mean  guise  for  the  amusement  of  the  people,  have  become 
important,  not  to  one  or  two  virtuosos,  but  to  the  general 
body  of  the  learned  : and  now  a whole  System  of  antique 
Teutonic  Fiction  and  Mythology  unfolds  itself,  shedding  here 
and  there  a real  though  feeble  and  uncertain  glimmer  over 
what  was  once  the  total  darkness  of  the  old  Time.  Xo  fewer 
than  Fourteen  ancient  Traditionary  Poems,  all  strangely  in- 
tertwisted, and  growing  out  of  and  into  one  another,  have 


THE  NIBEL  UNGEN  LIED. 


67 


come  to  light  among  the  Germans  ; who  now,  in  looking 
back,  find  that  they  too,  as  well  as  the  Greeks,  have  their 
Heroic  Age,  and  round  the  old  Valhalla,  as  their  Northern 
Pantheon,  a world  of  demi-gods  and  wonders. 

Such  a phenomenon,  unexpected  till  of  late,  cannot  but  in- 
terest a deep-thinking,  enthusiastic  people.  For  the  Nibelun- 
gen  especially,  which  lies  as  the  centre  and  distinct  key-stone 
of  the  whole  too  chaotic  System, — let  us  say  rather,  blooms 
as  a firm  sunny  island  in  the  middle  of  these  cloud-covered, 
ever-shifting  sand-whirlpools, — they  cannot  sufficiently  testify 
their  love  and  veneration.  Learned  professors  lecture  on  the 
Nibelungen  in  public  schools,  with  a praiseworthy  view  to  ini- 
tiate the  German  youth  in  love  of  their  fatherland  ; from 
many  zealous  and  nowise  ignorant  critics  we  hear  talk  of  a 
‘ great  Northern  Epos,’  of  a ‘ German  Iliad  ; ’ the  more  satur- 
nine are  shamed  into  silence,  or  hollow-mouth-homage  : thus 
from  all  quarters  comes  a sound  of  joyful  acclamation  ; the 
Nibelungen  is  welcomed  as  a precious  national  possession,  re- 
covered after  six  centuries  of  neglect,  and  takes  undisputed 
place  among  the  sacred  books  of  German  literature. 

Of  these  curious  transactions  some  rumour  has  not  failed  to 
reach  us  in  England,  where  our  minds,  from  them  own  anti- 
quarian disposition,  were  willing  enough  to  receive  it.  Ab- 
stracts and  extracts  of  the  Nibelungen  have  been  piinted  in 
our  language  ; there  have  been  disquisitions  on  it  in  our  Re- 
views : hitherto,  however,  such  as  nowise  to  exhaust  the  sub- 
ject. On  the  contrary,  where  so  much  was  to  be  told  at  once, 
the  speaker  might  be  somewhat  puzzled  where  to  begin  : it 
was  a much  readier  method  to  begin  with  the  end,  or  with 
any  part  of  the  middle,  than  like  Hamilton’s  Earn  (whose  ex- 
ample is  too  little  followed  in  literary  narrative)  to  begin  with 
the  beginning.  Thus  has  our  stock  of  intelligence  come  rush- 
ing out  on  us  quite  promiscuously  and  pell-mell ; whereby 
the  whole  matter  cordd  not  but  acquire  a tortuous,  confused, 
altogether  inexplicable  and  even  dreary  aspect  ; and  the 
class  of  ‘ well-informed  persons  ’ now  find  themselves  in  that 
uncomfortable  position,  where  they  are  obliged  to  profess  ad- 
miration, and  at  the  same  time  feel  that,  except  by  name,  they 


68 


THE  NIBEL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


know  not  what  the  thing  admired  is.  Such  a position  towards 
the  venerable  Nibelungen,  which  is  no  less  bright  and  graceful 
than  historically  significant,  cannot  be  the  right  one.  More- 
over, as  appears  to  us,  it  might  be  somewhat  mended  by  very 
simple  means.  Let  any  one  that  had  honestly  read  the  Nibe- 
lungen,  which  in  these  days  is  no  surprising  achievement,  only 
tell  us  what  he  found  there,  and  nothing  that  he  did  not  find : 
we  should  then  know  something,  and,  what  were  still  better, 
be  ready  for  knowing  more.  To  search  out  the  secret  roots 
of  such  a production,  ramified  through  successive  layers  of 
centuries,  and  drawing  nourishment  from  each,  may  be  work, 
and  too  hard  work,  for  the  deepest  philosopher  and  critic  ; 
but  to  look  with  natural  eyes  on  what  part  of  it  stands 
visibly  above  ground,  and  record  his  own  experiences  there- 
of, is  what  any  reasonable  mortal,  if  he  will  take  heed,  can 
do. 

Some  such  slight  service  we  here  intend  proffering  to  our 
readers  : let  them  glance  with  us  a little  into  that  mighty 
maze  of  Northern  Archaeology  ; where,  it  may  be,  some  pleas- 
ant prospects  will  open.  If  the  Nibelungen  is  what  we  have 
called  it,  a firm  sunny  island  amid  the  weltering  chaos  of  an- 
tique tradition,  it  must  be  worth  visiting  on  general  grounds  ; 
nay,  if  the  primeval  rudiments  of  it  have  the  antiquity  assigned 
them,  it  belongs  specially  to  us  English  Teutones  as  well  as  to 
the  German. 

Far  be  it  from  us,  meanwhile,  to  venture  rashly,  or  farther 
than  is  needful,  into  that  same  traditionary  chaos,  fondly 
named  the  ‘Cycle  of  Northern  Fiction,  with  its  Fourteen 
Sectors  ’ (or  separate  Poems),  which  are  rather  Fourteen  shore- 
less Limbos,  where  we  hear  of  pieces  containing  ‘ a hundred 
thousand  verses,’  and  ‘ seventy  thousand  verses,’  as  of  a quite 
natural  affair  ! How  travel  through  that  inane  country  ; by 
what  art  discover  the  little  grain  of  Substance  that  casts  such 
multiplied  immeasurable  Shadows  ? The  primeval  Mythus, 
were  it  at  first  philosophical  truth,  or  were  it  historical 'inci- 
dent, floats  too  vaguely  on  the  breath  of  men : each  successive 
Singer  and  Redactor  furnishes  it  with  new  personages,  new 
scenery,  to  please  a new  audience  ; each  has  the  privilege  of 


THE  NIBEL  UNGEN  LIED. 


G9 


inventing,  and  the  far  wider  privilege  of  borrowing  and  new- 
niodelhng  from  all  that  have  preceded  him.  Thus  though 
Tradition  may  have  but  one  root,  it  grows  like  a Banian,  into 
a whole  overarching  labyrinth  of  trees.  Or  rather  might  we 
say,  it  is  a Hall  of  Mirrors,  where  in  pale  light  each  mirror 
reflects,  convexly  or  concavely,  not  only  some  real  Object,  but 
the  Shadows  of  this  in  other  mirrors  ; which  again  do  the  like 
for  it  : till  in  such  reflection  and  re-reflection  the  whole  im- 
mensity is  filled  with  dimmer  and  dimmer  shapes  ; and  no 
firm  scene  lies  round  us,  but  a dislocated,  distorted  chaos, 
fading  away  on  all  hands,  in  the  distance,  into  utter  night. 
Only  to  some  brave  Yon  der  Hagen,  furnished  with  indefati- 
gable ardour,  and  a deep,  almost  religious  love,  is  it  given  to 
find  sure  footing  there,  and  see  his  way.  All  those  Dulces  of 
Aquitama,  therefore,  and  EtzeVs  Court-holdings,  and  Dietrichs 
and  Sigenots  we  shall  leave  standing  where  they  are.  Such  as 
desire  farther  information,  will  find  an  intelligible  account  of 
the  whole  Series  or  Cycle,  in  Messrs.  Weber  and  Jamieson’s 
Illustrations  of  Northern  Antiquities  ; and  all  possible  further- 
ance, in  the  numerous  German  works  above  alluded  to  ; 
among  which  Von  der  Hagen’s  writings,  though  not  the  readi- 
est, are  probably  the  safest  guides.  . But  for  us,  our  business 
here  is  with  the  Nibelungen,  the  inhabited  poetic  country 
round  which  all  these  wildernesses  lie  ; only  as  environments 
of  which,  as  routes  to  which,  are  they  of  moment  to  us.  Per- 
haps our  shortest  and  smoothest  route  will  be  through  the 
Heldenbuch  (Hero-book)  ; wTick  is  greatly  the  most  impor- 
tant of  these  subsidiary  Fictions,  not  without  interest  of  its 
own,  and  closely  related  to  the  Nibelungen.  This  Heldenbuch, 
therefore,  we  must  now  address  ourselves  to  traverse  with  all 
despatch.  At  the  present  stage  of  the  business  too,  w*e  shall 
forbear  any  historical  inquiry  and  argument  concerning  the 
date  and  local  habitation  of  those  Traditions  ; reserving  what 
little  is  to  be  said  on  that  matter  till  the  Traditions  them- 
selves have  become  better  known  to  us.  Let  the  reader,  on 
trust  for  the  present,  transport  himself  into  the  twelfth  or 
thirteenth  century  ; and  therefrom  looking  back  into  the 
sixth  or  fifth,  see  what  presents  itself. 


70 


THE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


Of  the  Heldenbuch,  tried  on  its  own  merits,  and  except  as 
illustrating  that  other  far  worthier  Poem,  or  at  most  as  an 
old  national,  and  still  in  some  measure  popular  book,  we 
should  have  felt  strongly  inclined  to  say,  as  the  Curate  in 
Don  Quixote  so  often  did,  Al  corral  con  ello,  Out  of  window 
with  it ! Doubtless  there  are  touches  of  beauty  in  the  work, 
and  even  a sort  of  heartiness  and  antique  quaintness  in  its 
wildest  follies ; but  on  the  whole  that  George-and-Dragon 
species  of  composition  has  long  ceased  to  find  favour  with 
any  one  ; and  except  for  its  groundwork,  more  or  less  dis- 
cernible, of  old  Northern  Fiction,  this  Heldenbuch  has  little 
to  distinguish  it  from  these.  Nevertheless,  what  is  worth 
remark,  it  seems  to  have  been  a far  higher  favourite  than  the 
Nibelungen,  with  ancient  readers  : it  was  printed  soon  after 
the  invention  of  planting  ; some  think  in  1472,  for  there  is  no 
place  or  date  on  the  first  edition  ; at  all  events,  in  1491,  in 
1509,  and  repeatedly  since ; whereas  the  Nibelungen,  though 
written  earlier,  and  in  worth  immeasurably  superior,  had  to 
remain  in  manuscript  three  centuries  longer.  From  which, 
for  the  thousandth  time,  inferences  might  be  drawn  as  to  the 
infallibility  of  popular  taste,  and  its  value  as  a criterion  for 
poetry.  However,  it  is  probably  in  virtue  of  this  neglect,  that 
the  Nibelungen  boasts  of  its  actual  purity  ; that  it  now  comes 
before  us,  clear  and  graceful  as  it  issued  from  the  old  Singer’s 
head  and  heart ; not  overloaded  with  Ass-eared  Giants,  Fiery 
Dragons,  Dwarfs  and  Hairy  Women,  as  the  Heldenbuch  is, 
many  of  which,  as  charity  would  hope,  may  be  the  produce  of 
a later  age  than  that  famed  Swabian  Era,  to  which  these  poems, 
as  we  now  see  them,  are  commonly  referred.  Indeed,  one 
Casper  von  Roen  is  understood  to  have  passed  the  whole  Hel- 
denbuch through  his  limbec,  in  the  fifteenth  century  ; but  like 
other  rectifiers,  instead  of  purifying  it,  to  have  only  dragged 
it  -with  still  fiercer  ingredients  to  suit  the  sick  appetite  of  the 
time. 

Of  this  dragged  and  adulterated  Hero-book  (the  only  one 
we  yet  have,  though  there  is  talk  of  a better)  we  shall  quote 
the  long  Title-page  of  Lessing’s  Copy,  the  edition  of  1560  ; 
from  which,  with  a few  intercalated  observations,  the  read- 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


71 


er’s  curiosity  may  probably  obtain  what  little  satisfaction  it 
wants  : 

Das  Heldenbuch,  welchs  auffs  new  corrigirt  unci  gebessert  ist, 
nut  shonen  Figuren  geziert.  Gedr'uckt  zu  Frankfurt  am  3Iayn, 
durch  Weygand  Hanund  Sygmund  Feyerabend,  &c.  That  is  to 
say  : 

‘ The  Ilero-book,  which  is  of  new  corrected  and  improved, 
‘ adorned  with  beautiful  Figures.  Printed  at  Frankfurt  on 
‘ the  Mayn,  through  Weygand  Han  and  Sygmund  Feyer- 
c abend. 

‘ Part  First  saith  of  Kaiser  Ottnit  and  the'  little  King  Elbe- 
‘ rich,  how  they  with  great  peril,  over  sea,  in  Heathendom, 
‘ won  from  a king  his  daughter  (and  how  he  in  lawful  marriage 
‘ took  her  to  wife).’ 

From  which  announcement  the  reader  already  guesses  the 
contents  : how  this  little  King  Elberich  was  a Dwarf,  or  Elf, 
some  half-span  long,  yet  full  of  cunning  practices,  and  the 
most  helpful  activity  ; nay,  stranger  still,  hack  been  Kaiser 
Ottnit  of  Lamp  arte  i or  Lombardy’s  father, — having  had  his 
own  ulterior  views  in  that  indiscretion.  How  they  sailed 
with  Messina  ships,  into  Paynim  land  ; fought  with  that  un- 
speakable Turk,  King  Machabol,  in  and  about  his  fortress 
and  metropolis  of  Montebur,  which  was  all  stuck  round  with 
Christian  heads  ; slew  from  seventy  to  a hundred  thousand  of 
the  Infidels  at  one  heat  ; saw  the  lady  on  the  battlements  ; 
and  at  length,  chiefly  by  Dwarf  Elberich’s  help,  carried  her 
off'  in  triumph  ; wedded  her  in  Messina  ; and  without  diffi- 
culty, rooting  out  the  Mahometan  prejudice,  converted  her  to 
the  creed  of  Mother  Church.  The  fair  runaway  seems  to 
have  been  of  a gentle,  tractable  disposition,  very  different 
from  old  Machabol ; concerning  whom  it  is  here  chiefly  to  be 
noted  that  Dwarf  Elberich,  rendering  himself  invisible 'on 
their  first  interview,  plucks  out  a handful  of  hair  from  his 
chin  ; therebj"  increasing  to  a tenfold  pitch  the  royal  choler  ; 
and,  what  is  still  more  remarkable,  furnishing  the  poet  Wie- 
land,  sis  centuries  afterwards,  with  the  critical  incident  in  his 
Oberon.  As  for  the  young  lady  herself,  we  cannot  but  admit 
that  she  was  well  worth  sailing  to  Heathendom  for  ; and  shall 


72 


TEE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


here,  as  our  sole  specimen  of  that  old  German  doggerel,  give 
the  description  of  her,  as  she  first  appeared  on  the  battle- 
ments during  the  fight ; subjoining  a version  as  verbal  and 
literal  as  the  plainest  prose  can  make  it.  Considered  as  a de- 
tached passage,  it  is  perhaps  the  finest  we  have  met  with  in 
the  Heldenbuch. 

lhr  hers  brann  also  schone, 

Recht  als  ein  rot  rubein , 

Gleich  dem  vollen  mone 
Gdben  ihr  duglein  scliein. 

Sich  hett  die  maget  reine 
Mit  rosen  icohl  bekleid 
Und  aucli  mit  berlin  Heine  ; 

Niemand  da  trost  die  meid.  . 

Her  heart  burnt  (with  anxiety)  as  beautiful 
Just  as  a red  ruby, 

Like  the  full  moon 

Her  eyes  (eyelings,  pretty  eyes)  gave  sheen. 

Herself  had  the  maiden  pure 
Well  adorned  with  roses, 

And  also  with  pearls  small : 

No  one  there  comforted  the  maid. 

Sie  war  schon  an  dem  leibe, 

Und  zu  den  seiten  schmal ; 

Recht  als  ein  kertze  scheibe 
Wohlgescliaffen  uberaU  : 
lhr  beyden  hand  gemeine 
Ears  ihr  gents  nichts  gebrach  ; 
lhr  ndglein  schon  und  reine, 

Das  man  sich  darin  besach. 

She  was  fair  of  body, 

And  in  the  waist  slender  ; 

Right  as  a (golden)  candlestick 
Well-fashioned  everywhere : 

Her  two  hands  proper, 

So  that  she  wanted  naught  ; 

Her  little  nails  fair  and  pure, 

That  you  could  see  yourself  therein. 

Ihr  liar  tear  schon  urnbfangen 
Mit  elder  seidenfein  ; 


THE  N1BEL  JJN-GEN  LIED. 


73 


Das  Hess  sie  nieder  hangen, 

Das  hubsche  magedlein. 

Sie  trug  ein  kron  mit  steinen, 

Sie  war  von  gold  so  rot ; 

Elberich  dem  viel  kleinen 
War  zu  der  magte  not. 

Her  liair  was  beautifully  girt 
With  noble  silk  (band)  fine  ; 

She  let  it  flow  down, 

The  lovely  maidling. 

She  wore  a crown  with  jewels, 

It  was  of  gold  so  red  : 

For  Elberich  the  very  small 

The  maid  had  need  (to  console  her). 

Da  vornen  in  den  kronen 
Lag  ein  karfunkelstein, 

Der  in  dem  pallast  schonen 
Aecht  als  ein  kertz  erschein  ; 
Aufjrem  haupt  das  hare 
War  tauter  und  auchfein, 

Es  leuchtet  also  Mare 
Recht  als  der  sonnen  scliein. 

There  in  front  of  the  crown 
Lay  a carbuncle-stone, 

Which  in  the  palace  fair 
Even  as  a taper  seemed  ; 

On  her  head  the  hair 
Was  glossy  and  also  fine, 

It  shone  as  bright 
Even  as  the  sun’s  sheen. 

Die  magt  die  stand  aileine, 

Gar  trawrig  war  j r mut ; 
llirfarb  und  die  war  reine, 
Lieblich-we  milch  und  blut : 

Her  durch  jr  zapffe  reinen 
Schienjr  hats  als  der  schnee : 

Elberich  dem  viel  kleinen 
That  der  maget  jammer  weh. 

The  maid  she  stood  alone, 

Right  sad  was  her  mind  ; 


74- 


TEE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


Her  colour  it  was  pure, 

Lovely  as  milk  and  blood : 

Out  through  her  pure  locks 
Shone  her  neck  like  the  snow. 

Elberich  the  very  small 

Was  touched  with  the  maiden’s  sorrow. 

Happy  man  was  Kaiser  Ottnit,  blessed  witb  sucli  a wife, 
after  all  bis  travail  ; — bad  not  tbe  Turk  Macbabol  cunningly 
sent  bim,  in  revenge,  a box  of  young  Dragons,  or  Dragon-eggs, 
by  tbe  bands  of  a caitiff  Infidel,  contriver  of  tbe  mischief ; by 
whom  in  due  course  of  time  they  were  batched  and  nursed, 
to  tbe  infinite  woe  of  all  Lampartei,  and  ultimately  to  tbe 
death  of  Kaiser  Ottnit  himself,  whom  tbey  swallowed  and  at- 
tempted to  digest,  once  without  effect,  but  tbe  next  time  too 
fatally,  crown  and  all ! 

‘ Part  Second  announceth  ( meldet ) of  Hen-  Hugdietrich  and 
‘bis  son  Wolfdietrich  ; bow  tbey  for  justice-sake,  oft  by  their 
‘ doughty  acts  succoured  distressed  persons,  witb  other  bold 
‘ heroes  that  stood  by  them  in  extremity.’ 

Concerning  which  Hugdietrich,  Emperor  of  Greece,  and  bis 
son  Wolfdietrich,  one  day  tbe  renowned  Dietrich  of-  Bern,  we 
can  here  say  httle  more  than  that  tbe  former  trained  himself 
to  sempstress-work;  and  for  many  weeks  pbed  bis  needle, 
before  be  could  get  wedded  and  produce  Wolf  die  trich  ; who 
coming  into  tbe  world  in  this  clandestine  manner,  was  let 
down  into  tbe  castle-ditch,  and  like  Komulus  and  Kenius 
nursed  by  a Wolf,  whence  bis  name.  However,  after  never- 
imagined  adventures,  with  enchanters  and  enchantresses,  pa- 
gans and  giants,  in  all  quarters  of  tbe  globe,  be  finally,  witb 
utmost  effort,  slaughtered  those  Lombardy  Dragons  ; then 
married  Kaiser  Ottnit’s. widow,  whom  be  bad  rather  fiirted 
witb  before  ; and  so  hved  universally  respected  in  bis  new 
empire,  performing  yet  other  notable  achievements.  One 
strange  property  be  bad,  sometimes  useful  to  bim,  sometimes 
hurtful  : that  bis  breath,  when  be  became  angry,  grew  flame, 
red-hot,  and  would  take  tbe  temper  out  of  swords.  We  find 
bim  again  in  the  Nibelungen,  among  King  Etzel's  (Attila’s) 
followers ; a staid,  cautious,  yet  still  invincible  man ; on  which 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


75 


occasion,  though,  with  great  reluctance,  he  is  forced  to  inter- 
fere, and  does  so  with  effect.  Dietrich  is  the  favourite  hero 
of  all  those  Southern  Fictions,  and  well  acknowledged  in  the 
Northern  also,  where  the  chief  man,  however,  as  we  shall  find, 
is  not  he  but  Siegfried. 

‘ Part  Third  showeth  of  the  Rose-garden  at  Worms,  which 
‘ was  planted  by  Chrimhilte,  King  Gibich’s  daughter  ; where- 
‘ by  afterwards  most  part  of  those  Heroes  and  Giants  came  to 
‘ abstraction  and  were  slain.’ 

In  this  Third  Part  the  Southern  or  Lombard  Heroes  come 
into  contact  and  collision  wdth  another  as  notable  Northern 
class,  and  for  us  much  more  important.  Chriemhild,  whose 
ulterior  history  makes  such  a figure  in  the  Nibelungen,  had,  it 
would  seem,  near  the  ancient  City  of  Worms,  a Rose-garden, 
some  seven  English  miles  in  circuit ; fenced  only  by  a silk 
thread  ; wherein,  however,  she  maintained  Twelve  stout  fight- 
ing men  ; several  of  whom,  as  Hagen,  Volker,  her  three 
Brothers,  above  all  the  gallant  Siegfried  her  betrothed,  we 
shall  meet  wdth  again  : these,  so  unspeakable  was  their  prow- 
ess, sufficed  to  defend  the  silk-thread  Garden  against  all  mor- 
tals. Our  good  antiquary,  Yon  der  Hagen,  imagines  that  this 
Rose-garden  business  (in  the  primeval  Tradition)  glances  ob- 
liquely at  the  Ecliptic  with  its  Twelve  Signs,  at  Jupiter’s  fight 
with  the  Titans,  and  we  know  not  what  confused  skirmishing 
in  the  Utgard,  or  Asgard,  or  Midgard  of  the  Scandinavians. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  Chriemhild,  we  are  here  told,  being  very 
beautiful,  and  very  wilful,  boasts,  in  the  pride  of  her  heart, 
that  no  heroes  on  earth  are  to  be  compared  with  hers  ; and 
hearing  accidentally  that  Dietrich  of  Bern  has  a high  charac- 
ter in  this  line,  forthwith  challenges  him  to  visit  Worms,  and 
with  eleven  picked  men  to  do  battle  there  against  those  other 
Twelve  champions  of  Christendom  that  watch  her  Rose-gar- 
den. Dietrich,  in  a towering  passion  at  the  style  of  the  mes- 
sage, which  was  ‘ surly  and  stout,’  instantly  pitches  upon  his 
eleven  seconds,  who  also  are  to  be  principals  ; and  with  a ret- 
inue of  other  sixty  thousand,  by  quick  stages,  in  which  ob- 
stacles enough  are  overcome,  reaches  Worms,  and  declares 
himself  ready.  Among  these  eleven  Lombard  heroes  of  his 


76 


TEE  N1BELUNGEN  LIED. 


are  likewise  several  whom  we  meet  with  again  in  the  Nibe- 
lungen  ; beside"  Dietrich  himself,  we  have  the  old  Duke  Hilde- 
brand, Wolfhart,  Ortwin.  Notable  among  them,  in  another 
way,  is  Monk  Ilsan,  a truculent,  gray -bearded  fellow*,  equal  to 
any  Friar  Tuck  in  Robin  Hood. 

The  conditions  of  fight  are  soon  agreed  on : there  are  to 
be  twelve  successive  duels,  each  challenger  being  expected  to 
find  his  match ; and  the  prize  of  victory  is  a Rose-garland 
from  Chriemhild,  and  ein  Helssen  und  ein  Kussen,  that  is  to 
say  virtually,  one  kiss  from  her  fair  bps  to  each.  But  here 
as  it  ever  should  do,  Pride  gets  a fall ; for  Chriemhild’s  bully- 
hectors  are,  in  divers  ways,  all  successively  felled  to  the 
ground  by  the  Berners ; some  of  whom,  as  old  Hildebrand, 
will  not  even  take  her  Kiss  when  it  is  due  : even  Siegfried 
himself,  most  reluctantly  engaged  with  by  Dietrich,  and  for 
a while  victorious,  is  at  last  forced  to  seek  shelter  in  her  lap. 
Nay,  Monk  Ilsan,  after  the  regular  fight  is  over,  and  his  part 
in  it  well  performed,  calls  out  in  succession  fifty-two  other 
idle  Champions  of  the  Garden,  part  of  them  Giants,  and  routs 
the  whole  fraternity  ; thereby  earning,  besides  his  own  regu- 
lar allowance,  fifty-two  spare  Garlands,  and  fifty-two  several 
Kisses  ; in  the  course  of  which  latter,  Chriemhild’s  cheek,  a 
just  punishment  as  seemed,  was  scratched  to  the  drawing  of 
blood  by  his  rough  beard.  It  only  remains  to  be  added,  that 
King  Gibich,  Chriemhild’s  Father,  is  now  fain  to  do  homage 
for  his  kingdom  to  Dietrich  ; who  returns  triumphant  to  his 
own  country  ; wdiere  also,  Monk  Ilsan,  according  to  promise, 
distributes  these  fifty-two  Garlands  among  his  fellow  Friars, 
crushing  a garland  on  the  bare  crown  of  each,  till  1 the  red 
blood  ran. over  their  ears.’  Under  which  hard,  but  not  unde- 
served treatment,  they  all  agreed  to  pray  for  remission  of 
Rsan’s  sins  : indeed,  such  as  continued  refractory  he  tied  to- 
gether by  the  beards,  and  hung  pair-wise  over  poles  ; whereby 
the  stoutest  soon  gave  in. 

So  endetli  here  this  ditty 

Of  strife  from  woman’s  pride  : 

God  on  our  griefs  take  pity, 

And  Mary  still  by  us  abide. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


77 


‘In  Part  Fourth  is  announced  (genielt)  of  the  little  King 
‘Laurin,  the  Dwarf,  how  he  encompassed  his  Rose-garden 
‘ with  so  great  manhood  and  art-magic,  till  at  last  he  was 
‘ vanquished  by  the  heroes,  and  forced  to  become  their  Jug- 
‘gler,  with  &c.  &c.’ 

Of  which  Fourth  and  happily  last  part  we  shall  here  say 
nothing ; inasmuch  as,  except  that  certain  of  our  old  heroes 
again  figure  there,  it  has  no  coherence  or  connexion  with  the 
rest  of  the  Heidenbuch  ; and  is  simply  a new  tale,  which  by 
way  of  episode  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  as  we  learn  from 
his  own  words,  had  subsequently  appended  thereto.  He  says  ; 

Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen 
This  story  hath  been  singing, 

To  the  joy  of  Princes  bold, 

They  gave  him  silver  and  gold, 

Moreover  pennies  and  garments  rich : 

Here  endeth  this  Book  the.  which 
Doth  sing  our  noble  Heroe’s  story  : 

» God  help  us  all  to  heavenly  glory. 

Such  is  some  outline  of  the  famous  Heidenbuch  ; on  which 
it  is  not  our  business  here  to  add  any  criticism.  The  fact 
that  it  has  so  long  been  popular  betokens  a certain  worth  in 
it ; the  kind  and  degree  of  which  is  also  in  some  measure 
apparent.  In  poetry  ‘the  rude  man,’ it  has  been  said,  re- 
‘ quires  only  to  see  something  going  on  ; the  man  of  more 
‘ refinement  wishes  to  feel ; the  truly  refined  man  must  be 
‘ made  to  reflect.’  For  the  first  of  these  classes  our  Hero-book, 
as  has  been  apparent  enough,  provides  in  abundance  ; for 
the  other  two  scantily,  indeed  for  the  second  not  at  all. 
Nevertheless  our  estimate  of  this  work,  which  as  a series  of 
Antique  Traditions  may  have  considerable  meaning;  is  apt 
rather  to  be  too  low.  Let  us  remember  that  this  is  not  the 
original  Heidenbuch  which  we  now  see  ; but  only  a version  of 
it  into  the  Knight-errant  dialect  of  the  thirteenth,  indeed 
partly  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  with  all  the 
fantastic  monstrosities,  now  so  trivial,  pertaining  to  that 
style  ; under  which  disguises  the  really  antique  earnest  ground- 


THE  NIBEL  UNGEN  LIED. 


■work,  interesting  as  old  Thought,  if  not  as  old  Poetry,  is  all 
but  quite  obscured  from  us.  But  Antiquarian  diligence  is 
now  busy  with  the  Heldenbuch  also,  from  which  what  light  is 
in  it  will  doubtless  be  elicited,  and  here  and  there  a deform- 
ity removed.  Though  the  Ethiop  cannot  change  his  skin, 
there  is  no  need  that  even  he  should  go  abroad  unwashed.1 

Casper  von  Roen,  or  whoever  was  the  ultimate  redactor  of 
the  Heldenbuch,  whom  Lessing  designates  as  ‘ a highly  ill- 
informed  man,’  would  have  done  better  had  he  quite  omitted 
that  little  King  Laurin,  ‘ and  his  little  Rose-garden,’  which 
properly  is  no  Rose-garden  at  all;  and  instead  thereof  in- 
troduced the  Gehornte  Siegfried  (Behorned  Siegfried),  whose 
history  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  whole  Northern  Traditions  ; 
and,  under  a rude  prose  dress,  is  to  this  day  a real  child’s- 
book  and  people’s-book  among  the  Germans.  Of  this  Sieg- 
fried we  have  already  seen  somewhat  in  the  Rose-garden  at 
Worms  ; and  shall  erelong  see  much  more  elsewhere  ; for  he 
is  the  chief  hero  of  the  Nibelungen : indeed  nowhere  can  we 
dip  into  those  old  Fictions,  whether  in  Scandinavia 'or  the 
Rhine  land,  but  under  one  figure  or  another,  whether  as 
Dragon-killer  and  Prince-royal,  or  as  Blacksmith  and  Horse- 
subduer,  as  Sigurd,  Sivrit,  Siegfried,  we  are  sure  to  light  on 
him.  As  his  early  adventures  belong  to  the  strange  sort,  and 
will  afterwards  concern  us  not  a little,  we  shall  here  endeav- 
our to  piece  together  some  consistent  outline  of  them  ; so 
far  indeed  as  that  may  be  possible  ; for  his  biographers, 
agreeing  in  the  main  points,  differ  widely  in  the  details. 

First,  then,  let  no  one  from  the  title  Gehornte  (Horned, 
Behorned),  fancy  that  our  brave  Siegfried,  who  was  the  love- 
liest as  well  as  the  bravest  of  men,  was  actually  comuted, 
and  had  horns  on  his  brow,  though  like  Michael  Angelo’s 

1 Our  inconsiderable  knowledge  of  tlie  lleldenbuch  is  derived  from 
various  secondary  sources  ; chiefly  from  Lessing’s  Werke  (h.  xiii.),  where 
the  reader  will  find  an  epitome  of  the  whole  Poem,  with  Extracts  by 
Herr  Fulleborn  from  which  the  above  are  taken.  A still  more  accessi- 
ble and  larger  Abstract,  with  long  specimens  translated  into  verse, 
stands  in  the  Illustrations  of  Northern  Antiquities  (pp.  45-167).  You 
der  Hagen  has  since  been  employed  specially  on  the  Heldenbuch  j with 
what  result  we  have  not  yet  learned. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


79 


Moses  ; or  even  that  his  skin,  to  which  the  epithet  Behorned 
refers,  was  hard  like  a crocodile’s,  and  not  softer  than  the 
softest  shamoy  : for  the  truth  is,  his  Hornedness  means  only 
an  Invulnerability,  like  that  of  Achilles,  which  he  came  by  in 
the  following  manner.  All  men  agree  that  Siegfried  was  a 
king’s  son  ; he  was  born,  as  we  here  have  good  reason  to 
know,  ‘ at  Santen  in  Netherland,’  of  Siegemund  and  the  fair 
Siegfelinde  ; yet  by  some  family  misfortune  or  discord,  of 
which  the  accounts  are  very  various,  he  came  into  singular 
straits  during  boyhood  ; having  passed  that  happy  period  of 
life,  not  under  the  canopies  of  costly  state,  but  by  the  sooty 
stithy,  in  one  Mimer  a Blacksmith’s  shop.  Here,  however, 
he  was  nowise  in  his  proper  element ; ever  quarrelling  with 
his  fellow-apprentices  ; nay,  as  some  say,  breaking  the  hard- 
est an»ils  into  shivers  by  his  too  stout  hammering.  So  that 
Mimer,  otherwise  a first-rate  Smith,  could  by  no  means  do 
with  him  there.  He  sends  him,  accordingly,  to  the  neigh- 
bouring forest,  to  fetch  charcoal ; well  aware  that  a monstrous 
Dragon,  one  Begm,  the  Smith’s  own  Brother,  would  meet  him 
and  devour  him.  But  far  otherwise  it  proved  ; Siegfried  by 
main  force  slew'  this  Dragon,  or  rather  Dragonised  Smith’s- 
Brother ; made  broth  of  him  ; and  warned  by  some  signifi- 
cant phenomena,  bathed  therein  ; or,  as  others  assert,  bathed 
directly  in  the  monster’s  blood,  without  cookery  ; and  hereby 
attained  that  Invulnerability,  complete  in  all  respects,  save 
that  between  his  shoulders,  where  a lime-tree  leaf  chanced 
to  settle  and  stick  during  the  process,  there  was  one  little 
spot,  a fatal  spot  as  afterwards  turned  out,  left  in  its  natural 
state. 

Siegfried,  now  seeing  through  the  craft  of  the  Smith,  re- 
turned home  and  slew  him  ; then  set  forth  in  search  of  ad- 
ventures, the  bare  catalogue  of  which  were  long  to  recite. 
We  mention  only  two,  as  subsequently  of  moment  both  for 
him  and  for  us.  He  is  by  some  said  to  have  courted,  and 
then  jilted,  the  fair  and  proud  Queen  Brunhild  of  Isenland  ; 
nay  to  have  thrown  down  the  seven  gates  of  her  Castle  ; and 
then  ridden  off  with  her  wil'd-horse  Gana,  having  mounted 
him  iu  the  meadow,  and  instantly  broken  him.  Some  cross 


80 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


passages  between  him  and  Queen  Brunhild,  who  understood 
no  jesting,  there  must  clearly  have  been,  so  angry  is  her  rec- 
ognition of  him  in  the  Nibelungen  ; nay,  she  bears  a lasting 
grudge  against  him  there ; as  he,  and  indeed  she  also,  one 
day  too  sorely  felt. 

His  other  grand  adventure  is  with  the  two  sons  of  the  de- 
ceased King  Nibelung,  in  Nibelungen-land  : these  two  youths, 
to  whom  their  father  had  bequeathed  a Hoard  or  Treasure 
beyond  all  price  or  computation,  Siegfried,  ‘ riding  by  alone,’ 
found  on  the  side  of  a mountain,  in  a state  of  great  perplex- 
ity. They  had  brought  out  the  Treasure  from  the  cave  where 
it  usually  lay  ; but  how  to  part  it  was  the  difficulty  ; for,  not 
to  speak  of  gold,  there  were  as  many  jewels  alone  ‘ as  twelve 
‘ wagons  in  four  days  and  nights,  each  going  three  journeys, 
‘ could  carry  away  ; ’ nay,  ‘ however  much  you  took  |rom  it 
‘ there  was  no  diminution : ’ besides  in  real  property,  a Sword, 
Balmung,  of  great  potency ; a Divining-rod,  ‘ which  gave 
power  over  every  one ; ’ and  a Tarnkappe  (or  Cloak  of  Dark- 
ness), which  not  only  rendered  the  wearer  invisible,  but  also 
gave  him  twelve  men’s  strength.  So  that  the  two  Princes 
Royal,  without  counsel  save  from  then-  Twelve  stupid  Giants, 
knew  not  how  to  fall  upon  any  amicable  arrangement ; and, 
seeing  Siegfried  ride  by  so  opportunely,  requested  him  to  be 
arbiter ; offering  also  the  Sword  Balmung  for  his  trouble. 
Siegfried,  who  readily  undertook  the  impossible  problem,  did 
his  best  to  accomplish  it ; but,  of  course,  without  effect  ; nay 
the  two  Nibelungen  Princes,  being  of  choleric  temper,  grew 
impatient,  and  provoked  him  ; whereupon,  with  the  Sword 
Balmung  he  slew  them  both,  and  their  Twelve  Giants  (per- 
haps originally  Signs  of  the  Zodiac)  to  boot.  Thus  did  the 
famous  Nibelungen  Hort  (Hoard),  and  indeed  the  whole  Nibe- 
lungen-land, come  into  his  possession  : wearing  the  Sword 
Balmung,  and  having  slain  the  two  Princes  and  then  Cham- 
pions, what  was  there  farther  to  oppose  him  ? Vainly  did  the 
Dwarf  Alberich,  our  old  friend  Elberich  of  the  Heldenbuch, 
who  had  now  become  special  keeper  of  this  Hoard,  attempt 
some  resistance  with  a Dwarf  Army  ; he  was  diiven  back  into 
the  cave  ; plundered  of  his  Tarnkappe  ; and  obliged  with  all 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


81 


liis  myrmidons  to  swear  fealty  to  the  conqueror,  whom  indeed 
thenceforth  he  and  they  punctually  obeyed. 

Whereby  Siegfried  might  now  farther  style  himself  King 
of  the  Nibelungen  ; master  of  the  infinite  Nibelungen  Hoard 
(collected  doubtless  by  art-magic  in  the  beginning  of  Time, 
m the  deep  bowels  of  the  Universe),  with  the  Wiinschelruthe 
(Wishing  or  Divining  Rod)  pertaining  thereto  ; owner  of  the 
Tarnkappe,  which  he  ever  after  kept  by  him,  to  put  on  at  will ; 
and  though  last  not  least,  Bearer  and  Wielder  of  the  Sword 
Balmung,'  by  the  keen  edge  of  which  all  this  gain  had  come 
to  him.  To  -which  last  acquisitions  adding  his  previously 
acquired  Invulnerability,  and  his  natural  dignities  as  Prince 

1 By  this  Sword  Balnumg  also  hangs  a tale.  Doubtless  it  was  one  of 
those  invaluable  weapons  sometimes  fabricated  by  the  old  Northern 
Smiths,  compared  with  which  our  modern  Foxes,  and  Ferraras,  and 
Toledos,  are  mere  leaden  tools.  Von  der  Hagen  seems  to  think  it  simply 
the  Sword  Mimung  under  another  name  ; in  which  case  Siegfried’s  old 
master,  Mimer,  had  been  the  maker  of  it,  and  called  it  after  himself,  as 
if  it  had  been  his  son.  In  Scandinavian  chronicles,  veridical  or  not, 
we  have  the  following  account  of  that  transaction.  Mimer  (or,  as  some 
have  it,  surely  without  ground,  one  Velint,  once  an  apprentice  of  his) 
was  challenged  by  another  Craftsman,  named  Amilias,  who  boasted  that 
he  had  made  a suit  of  armour  which  no  stroke  could  dint, — to  equal 
that  feat,  or  own  himself  the  second  Smith  then  extant.  This  last  the 
stout  Mimer  would  in  no  case  do,  but  proceeded  to  forge  the  Sword 
Mimung  ; with  which,  when  it  was  finished,  he,  * in  presence  of  the 
King,’  cut  asunder  ‘ a thread  of  wool  floating  on  water.’  This  would 
have  seemed  a fair  fire-edge  to  most  smiths : not  so  to  Mimer  ; he  sawed 
the  blade  in  pieces,  welded  it  in  ‘ a red-hot  fire  for  three  days,’ tem- 
pered it  ‘with  milk  and  oatmeal,’  and  by  much  other  cunning,  brought 
out  a sword  that  severed  ‘ a ball  of  wool  floating  on  water.’  But  neither 
would  this  suffice  him  ; he  returned  to  his  smithy,  and  by  means  known 
only  to  himself,  produced,  in  the  course  of  seven  weeks,  a third  and 
final  edition  of  Mimung.  which  split  asunder  a whole  floating  pack  of 
wool.  The  comparative  trial  now  took  place  forthwith.  Amilias,  cased 
in  his  impenetrable  coat  of  mail,  sat  down  on  a bench,  in  presence  of 
assembled  thousands,  and  bade  Mimer  strike  him.  Mimer  fetched  of 
course  his  best  blow,  on  which  Amilias  observed,  that  there  was  a 
strange  feeling  of  cold  iron  in  his  inwards.  “Shake  thyself,”  said 
Mimer ; the  luckless  wight  did  so,  and  fell  in  two  halves,  being  cleft 
sheer  through  from  collar  to  haunch,  never  more  to  swing  hammer  in 
this  world. — See  Illustrations  of  Northern  Antiquities,  p.  31. 

6 


S2 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


of  Netlierland,  be  might  well  show  himself  before  the  fore- 
most at  Worms  or  elsewhere  ; and  attempt  any  the  highest 
adventure  that  fortune  could  cut  out  for  him.  However,  his 
subsequent  history  belongs  all  to  the  Nibelungen  Song ; at 
which  fair  garden  of  poesy  we  are  now,  through  all  these 
shaggy  wildernesses  and  enchanted  woods,  finally  arrived. 

Apart  from  its  antiquarian  value,  and  not  only  as  by  far 
the  finest  monument  of  old  German  art ; but  intrinsically, 
and  as  a mere  detached  composition,  this  Nibelungen  has  an 
excellence  that  cannot  but  surprise  us.  With  little  prepara- 
tion, any  reader  of  poetry,  even  in  these  days,  might  find  it 
interesting.  It  is  not  without  a certain  "Unity  of  interest  and 
purport,  and  internal  coherence  and  completeness  ; ;t  is  a 
Whole,  and  some  spirit  of  Music  informs  it : these  are  the 
highest  characteristics  of  a true  Poem.  Considering  farther 
what  intellectual  environment  we  now  find  it  in,  it  is  doubly 
to  be  prized  and  wondered  at ; for  it  differs  from  those  Hero- 
books,  as  molten  or  carved  metal  does  from  rude  agglomerated 
ore  ; almost  as  some  Shakspeare  from  his  fellow  Dramatists, 
whose  Tamburlaines  and  Island  Princesses,  themselves  not  des- 
titute of  merit,  first  show  us  clearly  in  what  pure  loftiness  and 
loneliness  the  Hamlets  and  Tempests  reign. 

The  unknown  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen,  though  no  Shak- 
speare, must  have  had  a deep  poetic  soul ; wherein  things 
discontinuous  and  inanimate  shaped  themselves  together  into 
life,  and  the  Universe  with  its  wondrous  purport  stood  signifi- 
cantly imaged  ; overarching  as  with  heavenly  firmaments  and 
eternal  harmonies,  the  little  scene  where  men  strut  and  fret 
their  hour.  His  Poem,  unlike  so  many  old  and  new  pretend- 
ers to  that  name,  has  a basis  and  organic  structure,  a begin- 
ning, middle  and  end  ; there  is  one  great  principle  and  idea 
set  forth  in  it,  round  which  all  its  multifarious  parts  com- 
bine in  living  union.  Remarkable  it  is,  moreover,  how  along 
with  this  essence  and  primary  condition  of  all  poetic  virtue, 
the  minor  external  virtues  of  what  we  call  Taste  and  so  forth, 
are,  as  it  were,  presupposed  ; and  the  living  soul  of  Poetry 
being  there,  its  body  of  incidents,  its  garment  of  language, 
come  of  them  own  accord.  So  too  in  the  case  of  Shakspeare, 


THE  NIB E LUNG EN  LIED. 


S3 


his  feeling  of  propriety,  as  compared  with  that  of  the  Mar- 
lowes  and  Fletchers,  his  quick  sure  sense  of  what  is  fit  and 
unfit,  either  in  act  or  word,  might  astonish  us,  had  he  no 
other  superiority.  But  true  Inspiration,  as  it  may  well  do, 
includes  that  same  Taste,  or  rather  a far  higher  and  heartfelt 
Taste,  of  which  that  other  ‘ elegant  ’ species  is  hut  an  ineffect- 
ual, irrational  apery  : let  us  see  the  herald  Mercury  actually 
descend  from  his  Heaven,  and  the  blight  wings,  and  the 
graceful  movement  of  these,  will  not  be  wanting. 

With  an  instinctive  art,  far  different  from  acquired  artifice, 
this  Poet  of  the  Nibelungen,  working  in  the  same  province 
with  his  contemporaries  of  the  Heldenbuch,  on  the  same  ma- 
terial of  tradition,  has,  in  a wonderful  degree,  possessed  him- 
self of  what  these  could  only  strive  after  ; and  with  his  1 clear 
feeling  of  fictitious  truth,’  avoided  as  false  the  errors  and 
monstrous  perplexities  in  which  they  vainly  struggled.  He 
is  of  another  species  than  they  ; in  language,  in  purity  and 
depth  of  feeling,  in  fineness  of  invention,  stands  quite  apart 
from  them. 

The  language  of  the  Heldenbuch,  as  we  saw  above,  was  a 
feeble,  half -articulate  child’s-speech,  the  metre  nothing  better 
than  a miserable  doggerel ; wFereas  here  in  the  old  Frankish 
( Ober'deutsch ) dialect  of  the  Nibelungen,  we  have  a clear  deci- 
sive utterance,  and  in  a real  system  of  verse,  not  without  es- 
sential regularity,  great  liveliness,  and  now  and  then  even 
harmony  of  rhythm.  Doubtless  we  must  often  call  it  a dif- 
fuse diluted  utterance  ; at  the  same  time  it  is  genuine,  with  a 
certain  antique  garrulous  heartiness,  and  has  a rhythm  in  the 
thoughts  as  well  as  the  words.  The  simplicity  is  never  silly  ; 
even  in  that  perpetual  recurrence  of  epithets,  sometimes  of 
rhymes,  as  where  two  words,  for  instance  lip  (body,  life,  leib) 
and  iv ip  (woman,  wife,  weib)  are  indissolubly  wedded  together, 
and  the  one  never  shows  itself  without  the  other  folio-wing, — 
there  is  something  which  reminds  us  not  so  much  of  poverty, 
as  of  trustfulness  and  childlike  innocence.  Indeed  a strange 
charm  lies  in  those  old  tones,  where,  in  gay  dancing  melo- 
dies, the  sternest  tidings  are  sung  to  us  ; and  deep  floods  of 
Sadness  and  Strife  play  lightly  in  little  curling  billows,  like 


84 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


seas  in  summer.  It  is  a meek  smile,  in  whose  still,  thought- 
ful depths  a whole  infinitude  of  patience,  and  love,  and  heroic 
strength  lie  revealed.  But  in  other  cases  too,  we  have  seen 
this  outward  sport  and  inward  earnestness  offer  grateful 
contrast,  and  cunning  excitement ; for  example,  in  Tasso  ; of 
whom,  though  otherwise  different  enough,  this  old  Northern 
Singer  has  more  than  once  reminded  us.  There  too,  as  here, 
we  have  a dark  solemn  meaning  in  light  guise  ; deeds  of  high 
temper,  harsh  self-denial,  daring  and  death,  stand  embodied 
in  that  soft,  quick-flowing,  joyfully -modulated  verse.  Nay 
farther,  as  if  the  implement,  much  more  than  we  might  fancy, 
had  influenced  the  work  done,  these  two  Poems,  could  we 
trust  our  individual  feeling,  have  in  one  respect  the  same  po- 
etical result  for  us  : in  the  Nibelungen,  as  in  the  Gerusalemme, 
the  persons  and  their  story  are  indeed  brought  vividly  before 
us,  yet  not  near  and  palpably  present ; it  is  rather  as  if  we 
looked  on  that  scene  through  an  inverted  telescope,  whereby 
the  whole  was  carried  far  away  into  the  distance,  the  life- 
large  figures  compressed  into  brilliant  miniatures,  so  clear,  so 
real,  yet  tiny,  elf-like  and  beautified  as  well  as  lessened,  their 
colours  being  now  closer  and  brighter,  the  shadows  and  triv- 
ial features  no  longer  visible.  This,  as  we  partly  apprehend, 
comes  of  singing  Epic  Poems  ; most  part  of  which  only  pre- 
tend to  be  sung.  Tasso’s  rich  melody  still  lives  among  the 
Italian  people  ; the  Nibelungen  also  is  what  it  professes  to  be, 
a Song. 

No  less  striking  than  the  verse  and  language  is  the  quality 
of  the  invention  manifested  here.  Of  the  Fable,  or  narrative 
material  of  the  Nibelungen,  we  should  say  that  it  had  high, 
almost  the  highest  merit ; so  daintily  yet  firmly  is  it  put  to- 
gether ; with  such  felicitous  selection  of  the  beautiful,  the 
essential,  and  no  less  felicitous  rejection  of  whatever  was 
uubeautiful  or  even  extraneous.  The  reader  is  no  longer 
afflicted  with  that  chaotic  brood  of  Fire-drakes,  Giants,  and 
malicious  turbaned  Turks,  so  fatally  rife  in  the  Heldenbucli : all 
this  is  swept  away,  or  only  hovers  in  faint  shadows  afar  off : 
and  free  field  is  open  for  legitimate  perennial  interests.  Tel 
neither  is  the  Nibelungen  without  its  wonders  ; for  it  is  poetry 


THE  NIB  EL  UNGEN  LIED. 


85 


and  not  prose  ; here  too,  a supernatural  world  encompasses 
the  natural,  and,  though  at  rare  intervals  and  in  calm  manner, 
reveals  itself  there.  It  is  truly  wonderful  with  what  shill  our 
simple  untaught  Poet  deals  with  the  marvellous  ; admitting 
it  without  reluctance  or  criticism,  yet  precisely  in  the  degree 
and  shape  that  will  best  avail  him.  Here,  if  in  no  other  re- 
spect, we  should  say,  that  he  has  a decided  superiority  to 
Homer  himself.  The  whole  story  of  the  Nibelungen  is  fateful, 
mysterious,  guided  on  by  unseen  influences  ; yet  the  actual 
marvels  are  few,  and  done  in  the  far  distance  ; those  Dwarfs, 
and  Cloaks  of  Darkness,  and  charmed  Treasure-caves,  are 
heard  of  rather  than  beheld,  the  tidings  of  them  seem  to  issue 
from  unknown  space.  Vain  were  it  to  inquire  where  that 
Nibelungen -land  specially  is  : its  very  name  is  Nebei-land  or 
Nifl-land,  the  land  of  Darkness,  of  invisibility.  The  ‘ Nibe- 
lungen Heroes  ’ that  muster  in  thousands  and'  tens  of  thou- 
sands, though  they  march  to  the  Rhine  or  Danube,  and  we  see 
their  strong  limbs  and  shining  armour,  we  could  almost  fancy 
to  be  children  of  the  ah’.  Far  beyond  the  firm  horizon,  that 
wonder-bearing  region  swims  on  the  infinite  waters  ; unseen 
by  bodily  eye,  or  at  most  discerned  as  a faint  steak,  hanging 
in  the  blue  depths,  uncertain  whether  island  or  cloud.  And 
thus  the  Nibelungen  Song,  though  based  on  the  bottomless 
foundations  of  Spirit,  and  not  unvisited  of  skyey  messengers, 
is  a real,  rounded,  habitable  Earth,  where  we  find  firm  foot- 
ing, and  the  wondrous  and  the  common  live  amicably  to- 
gether. Perhaps  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  Poet  of  an- 
cient or  modern  times,  who  in  this  trying  problem  has  steered 
his  way  with  greater  delicacy  and  success. 

To  any  of  our  readers  who  may  have  personally  studied  the 
Nibelungen,  these  high  praises  of  ours  will  not  seem  exagger- 
ated : the  rest,  who  are  the  vast  majority,  must  endeavour  to 
accept  them  with  some  degree  of  faith,  at  least  of  curiosity  ; 
to  vindicate,  and  judicially  substantiate  them  would  far  exceed 
our  present  opportunities.  Nay  in  any  case,  the  criticism,  the 
alleged  Characteristics  of  a Poem  are  so  many  Theorems, 
which  are  indeed  enunciated,  truly  or  falsely,  but  the  Demon- 
stration of  which  must  be  sought  for  in  the  reader’s  own  study 


86 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


and  experience.  Nearly  all  that  can  be  attempted  here,  is 
some  hasty  epitome  of  the  mere  Narrative ; no  substantial 
image  of  the  work,  but  a feeble  outline  and  shadow.  To  which 
task,  as  the  personages  and  their  environment  have  already 
been  in  some  degree  illustrated,  we  can  now  proceed  without 
obstacle. 

The  Nibelungen  has  been  called  the  Northern  Epos  ; yet  it 
has,  in  great  part,  a Dramatic  character  : those  thirty-nine 
Aventiuren  (Adventurers),  which  it  consists  of,  might  be  so 
many  scenes  in  a Tragedy.  The  catastrophe  is  dimly  proph- 
esied from  the  beginning  ; and,  at  every  fresh  step,  rises  more 
and  more  clearly  into  view.  A shadow  of  coming  Fate,  as  it 
were,  a low  inarticulate  voice  of  Doom  falls,  from  the  first,  out 
of  that  charmed  Nibelungen-land  : the  discord  of  two  women 
is  as  a little  spark  of  evil  passion,  which  erelong  enlarges  itself 
into  a crime  ; foul  murder  is  done  ; and  now  the  Sin  rolls  on 
like  a devouring  fire,  till  the  guilty  and  the  innocent  are  alike 
encircled  with  it,  and  a whole  land  is  ashes,  and  a whole  race 
is  swept  away. 


Uns  ist  in  alien  mceren  Wunders  ril  geseit, 

Von  lielden  lobebeeren  Von  groser  chuonheit ; 

Von  vrouden  und  hodi-gezilen,  Von  iceinen  und  von  chlagen, 
Von  dinner  reclien  striten , Muget  ir  nu  icunder  horen  sagen. 


We  find  in  ancient  story  Wonders  many  told, 

Of  heroes  in  g-reat  glory  With  spirit  free  and  hold  ; 

Of  joyances  and  high  tides,  Of  weeping  and  of  woe, 

Of  noble  Recken  striving.  Mote  ye  now  wonders  know. 


This  is  the  brief  artless  Proem ; and  the  promise  contained 
in  it  proceeds  directly  towards  fulfilment.  In  the  very  second 
stanza,  we  leam  : 


Es  icu7is  in  Burgonden  Ein  ril  edel  magedin, 

Das  in  alien  landen  Niht  sdwners  rnohte  sin : 
Ghriemhill  was  si  gelteien,  Si  wart  ein  sdione  trip  ; 
Darumbe  rn  men  degene  Vil  verliesen  den  lip. 


T1IE  HI  BEL  UNGEN  LIED, 


87 


A right  noble  maiden  Did  grow  in  Burgundy, 

That  in  all  lands  of  earth  Naught  fairer  mote  there  be, 
C'hriemhild  of  Worms  she  bight,  She  was  a fairest  wife 
For  the  which  must  warriors  A many  lose  their  life.1 

Chriemhild,  this  world’s  wonder,  a king’s  daughter  and 
king’s  sister,  and  no  less  coy  and  proud  than  fan-,  dreams  one 
night  that  ‘ she  had  petted  a falcon,  strong,  beautiful  and 
‘ wild  ; which  two  eagles  snatched  away  from  her : this  she 
‘ was  forced  to  see  ; greater  sorrow  felt  she  never  in  the 
‘ world.’  Her  mother,  IJte,  to  whom  she  relates  the  vision, 
soon  redes  it  for  her  ; the  falcon  is  a noble  husband,  whom, 
God  keep  him,  she  must  suddenly  lose.  Chriemhild  declares 
warmly  for  the  single  state  ; as,  indeed,  living  there  at  the 
Court  of  Worms,  with  her  brothers,  Gunther,  Gernot,  Geisel- 
her,  ‘ three  kings  noble  and  rich,’  in  such  pomp  and  renown, 
the  pride  of  Burgun  den -land  and  Earth,  she  might  readily 
enough  have  changed  for  the  worse.  However,  dame  IJte  bids 
her  not  be  too  emphatical ; for  ‘if  ever  she  have  heartfelt  joy 
‘ in  life,  it  will  be  from  man’s  love,  and  she  shall  be  a fair  wife 
‘ {wip),  when  God  sends  her  a right  worthy  Bitter’s  lip.’ 
Chriemhild  is  more  in  earnest  than  maidens  usually  are  when 
they  talk  thus  ; it  appears,  she  guarded  against  love,  ‘ for 
many  a lief-long  day  ; ’ nevertheless,  she  too  must  yield  to 
destiny.  ‘ Honourably  she  was  to  become  a most  noble  Bit- 
ter’s wife.’  ‘This,’  adds  the  old  Singer,  ‘was  that  same  fal- 

1 This  is  the  first  of  a thousand  instances,  in  which  the  two  insepara- 
bles, wip  and  Up,  or  in  modern  tongue,  iceib  and  Icib,  as  mentioned 
above,  appear  together.  From  these  two  opening  stanzas  of  the  JSIbe- 
lungen  Lied , in  its  purest  form,  the  reader  may  obtain  some  idea  of  the 
versification  ; it  runs  on  in  more  or  less  regular  Alexandrines,  with  a 
caesural  pause  in  each  where  the  capital  letter  occurs  ; indeed,  the  lines 
seem  originally  to  have  been  divided  into  two  at  that  point,  for  some- 
times, as  in  Stanza  First,  the  middle  words  ( mceren , lobebmren  ; geziten, 
striten ) also  rhyme  ; hut  this  is  rather  a rare  case.  The  word  reclien  or 
recken,  used  in  the  First  Stanza,  is  the  constant  designation  for  bold 
fighters,  and  has  the  same  root  with  rich  (thus  in  old  French,  hornmes 
riches,  in  Spanish,  vicos  hoiubres),  which  last  is  here  also  synonymous 
with  powerful,  and  is  applied  to  kings,  and  even  to  the  Almighty,  Got 
clem  lichen. 


88 


THE  NIDELUNOEN  LIED. 


‘ con  slie  dreamed  of  : how  sorely  she  since  revenged  him  on- 
‘ her  nearest  kindred  ! For  that  one  death  died  frill  many  a 
‘ mother’s  son.’ 

It  may  be  observed,  that  the  Poet  here,  and  at  all  times, 
shows  a marked  partiality  for  Ckriemhild  ; ever  striving,  un- 
like his  fellow-singers,  to  magnify  her  worth,  her  faithfulness 
and  loveliness  ; and  softening,  as  much  as  may  be,  whatever 
makes  against  her.  No  less  a favourite  with  him  is  Siegfried, 
the  prompt,  gay,  peaceably  fearless  hero  ; to  whom,  in  the 
Second  A ventiure,  we  are  here  suddenly  introduced,  at  Santen 
(Xanten),  the  Court  of  Netherland  ; whither,  to  his  glad  par- 
ents, after  achievements  (to  us  partially  known)  ‘of  which 
one  might  sing  and  tell  forever,’  that  noble  prince  has  returned. 
Much  as  he  has  done  and  conquered,  he  is  but  just  arrived  at 
man’s  years  : it  is  on  occasion  of  this  joyful  event,  that  a high- 
tide  ( hochgezit ) is  now  held  there,  with  infinite  j oustings,  min- 
strelsy, largesses  and  other  chivalrous  doings,  all  which  is 
sung  with  utmost  heartiness.  The  old  King  Siegemund  offers 
to  resign  his  crown  to  him  ; but  Siegfried  has  other  game 
a-field  : the  unparalleled  beauty  of  Chriemhild  has  reached  his 
ear  and  his  fancy  ; and  now  he  will  to  Worms  and  woo  her, 
at  least  ‘ see  how  it  stands  with  her.’  Fruitless  is  it  for  Siege- 
mund and  the  mother  Siegelinde  to  represent  the  perils  of  that 
enterprise,  the  pride  of  those  Burgundian  Gunthers  and  Ger- 
nots,  the  fierce  temper  of  their  uncle  Hagen  ; Siegfried  is  as 
obstinate  as  young  men  are  in  these  cases,  and  can  hear  no 
counsel.  Nay  he  will  not  accept  the  much  more  liberal  prop- 
osition, to  take  an  army  with  him,  and  conquer  the  country,  if 
it  must  be  so  ; he  will  ride  forth,  hke  himself,  with  twelve 
champions  only,  and  so  defy  the  future.  Whereupon,  the  old 
people  finding  that  there  is  no  other  course,  proceed  to  make 
him  clothes  ; 1 — at  least,  the  good  queen  with  ‘ her  fair  women 
sitting  night  and  day,’  and  sewing,  does  so,  the  father  furnish- 
ing noblest  battle  and  riding  gear  ; — and  so  dismiss  him  with 
many  blessings  and  lamentations.  ‘For  him  wept  sore  the 

1 This  is  a never-failing  preparative  for  all  expeditions,  and  always 
specified  and  insisted  on  with  a simple,  loving,  almost  female  impres- 
siveness. 


THE  N1BELUNGEN  LIED. 


89 


‘ king  and  his  wife,  but  he  comforted  both  their  bodies  (lip)  ; 
‘ he  said,  “ Ye  must  not  weep,  for  my  body  ever  shall  ye  be 
‘ without  care.”  ’ 

Sad  was  it  to  the  Recken,  Stood  weeping  many  a maid  ; 

I ween  their  heart  had  them  The  tidings  true  foresaid, 

That  of  their  friends  so  many  Death  thereby  should  find  ; 

Cause  had  they  of  lamenting,  Such  boding  in  their  mind. 

Nevertheless,  on  the  seventh  morning,  that  adventurous  com- 
pany ‘ride  up  the  sand,’  on  the  Rliinebeach,  to  TVorms  ; in 
high  temper,  in  dre^j  and  trappings,  aspect  and  bearing  more 
than  kingly. 

Siegfried’s  reception  at  King  Gunther’s  court,  and  his 
brave  sayings  and  doings  there  for  some  time,  we  must  omit. 
One  fine  trait  cd  his  chivalrous  delicacy  it  is  that,  for  a whole 
year,  he  never  hints  at  his  errand  ; never  once  sees  or  speaks 
of  Chriemhild,  whom,  nevertheless,  he  is  longing  day  and 
night  to  meet.  She,  on  her  side,  has  often  through  her  lat- 
tices noticed  the  gallant  stranger,  victorious  in  all  tiltings  and 
knightly  exercises  ; whereby  it  would  seem,  in  spite  of  her 
rigorous  predeterminations,  some  kindness  for  him  is  already 
gliding  in.  Meanwhile,  mighty  wars  and  threats  of  invasion 
arise,  and  Siegfried  does  the  state  good  service.  Returning 
victorious,  both  as  general  and  soldier,  from  Hessen  (Hessia), 
where,  by  help  of  his  own  courage  and  the  sword  Balmung, 
he  has  captured  a Danish  king,  and  utterly  discomfited  a 
Saxon  one  ; he  can  now  show  himself  before  Chriemhild  with- 
out other  blushes  than  those  of  timid  love.  Nay  the  maiden 
has  herself  inquired  pointedly  of  the  messengers,  touching 
his  exploits  ; and  ‘ her  fair*  face  grew  rose-red  when  she 
heard  them.’  A gay  High-tide,  by  way  of  triumph,  is  ap- 
pointed ; several  kings,  and  two-and-thirty  princes,  and 
knights  enough  with  ‘ gold-red  saddles,’  come  to  joust  ; and 
better  than  whole  infinities  of  kings  and  princes  with  their 
saddles,  the  fair  Chriemhild  herself,  under  guidance  of  her 
mother,  chiefly  too  in  honour  of  the  victor,  is  to  grace  that 
sport.  ‘ Ute  the  full  rich  ’ fails  not  to  set  her  needle-women 
to  work,  and  ‘ clothes  of  price  are  taken  from  their  presses,’ 


90 


THE  N1  BEL  UNGEN  LIED. 


for  the  love  of  her  child,  ‘ wherewith  to  deck  many  women 
and  maids.’  And  now,  ‘on  the  Whitsun-morning,’  all  is 
ready,  and  glorious  as  heart  could  desire  it ; brave  Ritters, 
‘ five  thousand  or  more/  all  glancing  in  the  lists  ; but  grander 
still,  Chriemhild  herself  is  advancing  beside  her  mother,  with 
a hundred  body-guards,  all  sword-in-hand,  and  many  a noble 
maid  ‘ wearing  rich  raiment,’  in  her  train. 

‘Now  issued  forth  the  lovely  one  ( minnechliche ),  as  the  red 
morning  doth  from  troubled  clouds  ; much  care  fled  away 
from  him  who  bore  her  in  his  heart,  and  long  had  done  ; he 
saw  the  lovely  one  stand  in  her  beauty. 

‘ There  glanced  from  her  garments  full  many  precious 
stones,  her  rose-red  colour  shone  full  lovely ; try  what  he 
might,  each  man  must  confess  that  in  this  world  he  had  not 
seen  aught  so  fair. 

‘Like  as  the  light  moon  stands  before  the  stars,  and  its 
sheen  so  clear  goes  over  the  clouds,  even  so  stood  she  now 
before  many  fair  women  ; whereat  cheered  was  the  mind  of 
the  hero. 

‘ The  rich  chamberlains  you  saw  go  before  her,  the  high- 
spirited  Recken  would  not  forbear,  but  pressed  on  where  they 
saw  the  lovely  maiden.  Siegfried  the  lord  was  both  glad  and 
sad. 

‘ He  thought  in  his  mind,  How  could  this  be  that  I should 
woo  thee  ? That  was  a foolish  dream  ; yet  must  I forever  be 
a stranger,  I were  rather  ( sanfter , softer)  dead.  He  became, 
from  these  thoughts,  in  quick  changes,  pale  and  red. 

‘ Thus  stood  so  lovely  the  child  of  Siegelinde,  as  if  he  wei’e 
limned  on  parchment  by  a master’s  art ; for  all  granted  that 
hero  so  beautiful  they  had  never  seen.’ 

In  this  passage,  which  we  have  rendered,  from  the  Fifth 
Aventiure,  into  the  closest  prose,  it  is  to  be  remarked,  among 
other  singularities,  that  there  are  two  similes  : in  which  fig- 
ure of  speech  our  old  Singer  deals  very  sparingly.  The 
first,  that  comparison  of  Chriemhild  to  the  moon  among  stars 
with  its  sheen  going  over  the  clouds,  has  now  for  many  cen- 
turies had  little  novelty  or  merit  : but  the  second,  that  of 
Siegfried  to  a Figure  in  some  illuminated  Manuscript,  is 
graceful  in  itself  ; and  unspeakably  so  to  antiquaries,  seldom 


THE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


91 


honoured,  in  their  Black-letter  stubbing  and  grabbing,  with 
such  a poetic  windfall ! 

A prince  and  a princess  of  this  quality  are  clearly  made  for 
one  another.  Nay,  on  the  motion  of  young  Herr  Gernot, 
fair  Ckriemkild  is  bid  specially  to  salute  Siegfried,  she  who 
had  never  before  saluted  man  ; which  unparalleled  grace  the 
lovely  one,  in  all  courtliness,  openly  does  him.  “Be  wel- 
come,” said  she,  “Herr  Siegfried,  a noble  Bitter  good;” 
from  which  salute,  for  this  seems  to  have  been  all,  ‘ much 
raised  was  his  mind.’  He  bowed  with  graceful  reverence,  as 
his  manner  was  with  women  ; she  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
with  fond  stolen  glances  they  looked  at  each  other.  Whether 
in  that  ceremonial  joining  of  hands  there  might  not  be  some 
soft,  slight  pressure,  of  far  deeper  import,  is  what  our  Singer 
will  not  take  upon  him  to  say  ; however,  he  thinks  the  af- 
firmative more  probable.  Henceforth,  in  that  bright  May 
weather,  the  two  were  seen  constantly  together : nothing  but 
felicity  around  and  before  them. — In  these  days,  truly,  it  must 
have  been  that  the  famous  Prize-fight,  with  Dietrich  of  Bern 
and  his  Eleven  Lombardy  champions  took  place,  little  to  the 
profit  of  the  two  Lovers  ; were  it  not  rather  that  the  whole  of 
that  Bose-garden  transaction,  as  given  in  the  Heldenbuch, 
might  be  falsified  and  even  imaginary  ; for  no  mention  or 
hint  of  it  occurs  here.  War  or  battle  is  not  heard  of  ; Sieg- 
fried the  peerless  walks  wooingly  by  the  side  of  Chriemhild 
the  peerless  ; matters,  it  is  evident,  are  in  the  best  possible 
course. 

But  now  comes  a new  side-rand,  which,  however,  in  the 
long-run  also  forwards  the  voyage.  Tidings,  namely,  reached 
over  the  Bkine,  not  so  surprising  we  might  hope,  ‘ that  there 
was  many  a fair  maiden  ; ’ whereupon  Gunther  the  King 
‘thought  with  himself  to  win  one  of  them.’  It  was  an  hon- 
est purpose  in  King  Gunther,  only  his  choice  was  not  the 
discreetest.  For  no  fair  maiden  will  content  him  but  Queen 
Brunhild,  a lady  who  rules  in  Isenland,  far  over  sea,  famed 
indeed  for  her  beauty,  yet  no  less  so  for  her  caprices.  Fables 
we  have  met  with  of  this  Brunhild  being  properly  a Valkyr, 
or  Scandinavian  Houri,  such  as  were  wont  to  lead  old  northern 


92 


THE  N1DELUNGEN  LIED. 


warriors  from  their  last  battle-field  into  Valhalla  ; and  that 
her  castle  of  Isenstem  stood  amidst  a lake  of  fire  : but  this,  as 
we  said,  is  fable  and  groundless  calumny,  of  which  there  is 
not  so  much  as  notice  taken  here.  Brunhild,  it  is  plain 
enough,  was  a flesh-and-blood  maiden,  glorious  in  look  and 
faculty,  only  with  some  preternatural  talents  given  her,  and 
the  strangest  wayward  habits.  It  appears,  for  example,  that 
any  suitor  proposing  for  her  has  this  brief  condition  to  pro- 
ceed upon:  he  must  try  the  adorable  in  the  three  several 
games  of  hurling  the  Spear  (at  one  another),  Leaping,  and 
throwing  the  Stone  ; if  victorious,  he  gains  her  hand  ; if  van- 
quished, he  loses  his  own  head  ; which  latter  issue,  such  is 
the  fan’  Amazon’s  strength,  frequent  fatal  experiment  has 
shown  to  be  the  only  probable  one. 

Siegfried,  who  knows  something  of  Brunhild  and  her  ways, 
votes  clearly  against  the  whole  enterprise  ; however,  Gunther 
has  once  for  all  got  the  whim  in  him,  and  must  see  it  out. 
The  prudent  Hagen  von  Troneg,  uncle  to  love-sick  Gunther, 
and  ever  true  to  him,  then  advises  that  Siegfried  be  requested 
to  take  part  in  the  adventure  ; to  which  request  Siegfried 
readily  accedes  on  one  condition  : that,  should  they  prove 
fortunate,  he  himself  is  to  have  Chiiemliild  to  wife  when  they 
return.  This  readily  settled,  he  now  takes  charge  of  the 
business,  and  throws  a little  light  on  it  for  the  others.  They 
must  lead  no  army  thither  ; only  two,  Hagen  and  Dankwart, 
besides  the  king  and  himself,  shall  go.  The  grand  subject  of 
ivaete  ' (clothes)  is  next  hinted  at,  and  in  general  terms  eluci- 
dated ; whereupon  a solemn  consultation  with  Chriemhild 
ensues  ; and  a great  cutting-out,  on  her  part,  of  white  silk 
from  Araby,  of  green  silk  from  Zazemang,  of  strange  fish- 
skins  covered  with  morocco  silk  ; a great  sewing  thereof  for 
seven  weeks,  on  the  part  of  her  maids  ; lastly,  a fitting  on  of 
the  three  suits  by  each  hero,  for  each  had  three  ; and  heartiest 
thanks  in  return,  seeing  all  fitted  perfectly,  and  was  of  grace 
and  price  unutterable.  What  is  still  more  to  the  point,  Sieg- 
fried takes  his  Cloak  of  Darkness  with  him,  fancying  he  may 

1 Hence  our  English  weeds,  and.  Scotch  wad  (pledge)  ; and,  say  the 
etymologists,  wadding , and  even  wedding. 


THE  NIBEL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


93 


need  it  there.  The  good  old  Singer,  who  has  hitherto  al- 
luded only  in  the  faintest  way  to  Siegfried’s  prior  adventures 
and  miraculous  possessions,  introduces  this  of  the  Tarnkappe 
with  great  frankness  and  simplicity.  ‘ Of  wild  dwarfs  (cjet- 
‘ wergen),’  says  he,  ‘ I have  heard  tell,  they  are  in  hollow 
‘ mountains,  and  for  defence  wear  somewhat  called  Tarnkap>pe, 
1 of  wondrous  sort ; ’ the  qualities  of  which  garment,  that  it 
renders  invisible,  and  gives  twelve  men’s  strength,  are  already 
known  to  us. 

The  voyage  to  Isenstein,  Siegfried  steering  the  ship  thither, 
is  happily  accomplished  in  twenty  days.  Gunther  admires  to 
a high  degree  the  fine  masonry  of  the  place ; as  indeed  he 
well  might,  there  being  some  eighty-six  towers,  three  immense 
palaces  and  one  immense  hall,  the  whole  built  of  ‘ marble 
green  as  grass  ; ’ farther  he  sees  many  fair  women  looking 
from  the  windows  down  on  the  bark,  and  thinks  the  loveliest 
is  she  in  the  snow-white  dress  ; which,  Siegfried  informs  him, 
is  a worthy  choice  ; the  snow-white  maiden  being  no  other 
than  Brunhild.  It  is  also  to  be  kept  in  mind  that  Siegfried, 
for  reasons  known  best  to  himself,  had  previously  stipulated 
that,  though  a free  king,  they  should  all  treat  him  as  vassal  of 
Gunther,  for  whom  accordingly  he  holds  the  stirrup,  as  they 
mount  on  the  beach  ; thereby  giving  rise  to  a misconception, 
wdiich  in  the  end  led  to  saddest  consequences. 

Queen  Brunhild,  who  had  called  back  her  maidens  from 
the  windows,  being  a stxict  disciplinarian,  and  retired  into  the 
interior  of  her  green  marble  Isenstein,  to  dress  still  better, 
now  inquires  of  some  attendant,  Who  these  strangers  of  such 
lordly  aspect  are,  and  what  brings  them  ? The  attendant  pro- 
fesses himself  at  a loss  to  say  ; one  of  them  looks  like  Sieg- 
fried, the  other  is  evidently  by  his  port  a noble  king.  His 
notice  of  Yon  Troneg  Hagen  is  peculiarly  vivid  : 

The  third  of  those  companions  He  is  of  aspect  stern, 

And  yet  with  lovely  body,  Rich  queen,  as  ye  might  discern  ; 
From  those  his  rapid  glances,  For  the  eyes  naught  rest  in  him, 
Meseems  this  foreign  Recke  Is  of  temper  fierce  and  grim. 

This  is  one  of  those  little  graphic  touches,  scattered  all  over 
our  Poem,  which  do  more  for  picturing  out  an  object,  espe- 


94 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


cially  a man,  than  whole  pages  of  enumeration  and  mensura- 
tion.  Never  after  do  we  hear  of  this  stout  indomitable  Hagen, 
in  all  the  wild  deeds  and  sufferings  he  passes  through,  but 
those  swinden  ■ blicken  of  his  come  before  us,  with  the  restless, 
deep,  dauntless  spirit  that  looks  through  them. 

Brunhild’s  reception  of  Siegfried  is  not  without  tartness  ; 
which,  however,  he,  with  polished  courtesy,  and  the  nimblest 
address,  ever  at  his  command,  softens  down,  or  hurries  over  ; 
he  is  here,  without  will  of  his  own,  and  so  forth,  only  as  at- 
tendant on  his  master,  the  renowned  King  Gunther,  who 
comes  to  sue  for  her  hand,  as  the  summit  and  keystone  of  all 
earthly  blessings.  Brunhild,  who  had  determined  on  fighting 
Siegfried  himself,  if  so  he  willed  it,  makes  small  account  of 
this  King  Gunther  or  his  prowess ; and  instantly  clears  the 
ground,  and  equips  her  for  battle.  The  royal  wooer  must 
have  looked  a little  blank  when  he  saw  a shield  brought  in 
for  his  fair  one’s  handling,  ‘ three  spans  thick  with  gold  and 
iron,’  which  four  chamberlains  could  hardly  bear,  and  a spear 
or.  javelin  she  meant  to  shoot  or  hurl,  which  was  a burden  fox- 
three.  Hagen,  in  angry  apprehension  for  his  king  and  nephew, 
exclaims  that  they  shall  all  lose  their  life  (lip),  and  that  she 
is  the  tiuvels  wip,  or  Devil’s  wfife.  Nevertheless  Siegfried  is 
already  there  in  his  Cloak  of  Darkness,  twelve  men  strong, 
and  privily  whispers  in  the  ear  of  royalty  to  be  of  comfort ; 
takes  the  shield  to  himself,  Gunther  only  affecting  to  hold  it, 
and  so  fronts  the  edge  of  battle.  Brunhild  performs  prodi- 
gies of  spear-hurling,  of  leaping,  and  stone-pitching ; but 
Gunther,  or  rather  Siegfried,  ‘ who  does  the  work,  he  only 
acting  the  gestures,’  nay  w-ho  even  snatches  him  up  into  the 
air,  and  leaps  carrying  him, — gains  a decided  victory,  and  the 
lovely  Amazon  must  own  xvith  surprise  and  shame,  that  she  is 
fairly  won.  Siegfried  presently  appears  without  Tarnkappe, 
and  asks  with  a grave  face,  When  the  games  then  are  to 
begin  ? 

So  far  well ; yet  somewhat  still  remains  to  be  done.  Brun- 
hild will  not  sail  for  Worms,  to  be  wedded,  till  she  have  as- 
sembled a fit  train  of  warriors.:  wherein  the  Burgundians, 
being  here  without  l'etinue,  see  symptoms  or  possibilities  of 


THE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


96 


mischief.  The  deft  Siegfried,  ablest  of  men,  again  knows  a 
resource.  In  his  Tarnkappe  he  steps  on  board  the  bark, 

which  seen  from  the  shore,  appears  to  drift-off*  of  its  own  ac- 
cord ; and  therein,  stoutly  steering  towards  Nibelungen-land, 
lie  reaches  that  mysterious  country  and  the  mountain  where 
his  Hoard  lies,  before  the  second  morning  ; finds  Dwarf  Al- 
berich  and  all  his  giant  sentinels  at  their  post,  and  faithful 
almost  to  the  death  ; these  soon  rouse  him  thirty  thousand 
Nibelungen  Recken,  from  whom  he  has  only  to  choose  one 
thousand  of  the  best ; equip  them  splendidly  enough ; and 
therewith  return  to  Gunther,  simply  as  if  they  were  that  sov- 
ereign’s own  body-guard,  that  had  been  delayed  a little  by 
stress  of  weather. 

The  final  arrival  at  Worms  ; the  bridal  feasts,  for  there  are 
two,  Siegfried  also  receiving  his  reward  ; and  the  joj'ance  and 
splendour  of  man  and  maid,  at  this  lordliest  of  high-tides  ; and 
the  j oustings,  greater  than  those  at  Aspramont  or  Montauban, 
— every  reader  can  fancy  for  himself.  Remarkable  only  is 
the  evil  eye  with  which  Queen  Brunhild  still  continues  to  re- 
gard the  noble  Siegfried.  She  cannot  understand  how  Gun- 
ther, the  Landlord  of  the  Rhine,1  should  have  bestowed  his 
sister  on  a vassal : the  assurance  that  Siegfried  also  is  a prince 
and  heir-apparent,  the  prince  namely  of  Netherland,  and  little 
inferior  to  Burgundian  majesty  itself,  yields  no  complete  sat- 
isfaction ; and  Brunhild  hints  plainly  that  unless  the  truth  be 
told  her,  unpleasant  consequences  may  follow.  Thus  is  there 
ever  a ravelled  thread  in  the  wreb  of  life  ! But  for  this  little 
cloud  of  spleen,  these  bridal  feasts  had  been  all  bright  and 
balmy  as  the  month  of  J une.  Unluckily  too,  the  cloud  is  an 
electric  one  ; spreads  itself  in  time  into  a general  earthquake ; 
nay  that  very  night  becomes  a thunder-storm,  or  tornado,  un- 
] ar allele d we  may  hope  in  the  annals  of  connubial  happiness. 

The  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen,  unlike  the  Author  of  Rod- 
erick Random,  cai'es  little  for  intermeddling  with  ‘the  chaste 
mysteries  of  Hymen.’  Could  we,  in  the  corrupt  ambiguous 

1 Der  Wirt  ton  Itine  : singular  enough,  the  word  Wirth,  often  applied 
to  royalty  in  that  old  dialect,  is  now  also  the  title  of  innkeepers.  To 
such  base  uses  may  we  come. 


96 


THE  NIBEL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


modern  tongue,  hope  to  exhibit  any  shadow  of  the  old  simple, 
true-hearted,  merely  historical  spirit,  with  which,  in  perfect 
purity  of  soul,  he  describes  things  unattempted  yet  in  prose 
or  rhyme, — we  could  a tale  unfold ! Suffice  it  to  say,  King 
Gunther,  Landlord  of  the  Rhine,  falling  sheer  down  from  the 
third  heaven  of  hope,  finds  his  spouse  the  most  athletic  and 
intractable  of  women  ; and  himself,  at  the  close  of  the  advent- 
ure, nowise  encircled  in  her  aims,  but  tied  hard  and  fast, 
hand  and  foot,  in  her  girdle,  and  hung  thereby,  at  consider- 
able elevation,  on  a nail  in  the  wall.  Let  any  reader  of  sen- 
sibility figure  the  emotions  of  the  royal  breast,  there  as  he 
vibrates  suspended  on  his  peg,  and  his  inexorable  bride  sleep- 
ing sound  in  her  bed  below ! Towards  morning  he  capitu- 
lates ; engaging  to  observe  the  prescribed  line  of  conduct 
with  utmost  strictness,  so  he  may  but  avoid  becoming  a 
laughing-stock  to  all  men. 

No  wonder  the  dread  king  looked  rather  grave  next  morn- 
ing, and  received  the  congratulations  of  mankind  in  a cold 
manner.  He  confesses  to  Siegfried,  who  partly  suspects  how 
it  may  be,  that  he  has  brought  the  ‘ evil  devil  ’ home  to  his 
house  in  the  shape  of  wife,  whereby  he  is  wretched  enough. 
However*  there  are  remedies  for  all  things  but  death.  The 
ever-serviceable  Siegfried  undertakes  even  here  to  make  the 
crooked  straight.  What  may  not  an  honest  friend  with 
Tamkappe  and  twelve  men’s  strength  perform  ? Proud 
Brunhild,  next  night,  after  a fierce  contest,  owns  herself  again 
vanquished  ; Gunther  is  there  to  reap  the  fruits  of  another's 
victory  ; the  noble  Siegfried  withdraws,  taking  nothing  with 
him  but  the  luxury  of  doing  good,  and  the  proud  queen’s 
Ring  and  Girdle  gained  from  her  in  that  struggle  ; which 
small  trophies  he’'  with  the  last  infirmity  of  a noble  mind,  pre- 
sents to  his  own  fond  wife,  little  dreaming  that  they  would 
one  day  cost  him  and  her,  and  all  of ' them,  so  dear’.  Such 
readers  as  take  any  interest  in  poor  Gunther  will  be  gratified 
fo  leam,  that  from  this  hour  Brunhild’s  preternatural  facul- 
ties quite  left  her,  being  all  dependent  on  her  maidliood  ; so 
that  any  more  spear-hurling,  or  other  the  like  extraordinary 
work,  is  not  to  be  apprehended  from  her. 


THE  NIBEL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


97 


If  we  add,  that  Siegfried  formerly  made  over  to  his  dear 
Chriemhild  the  Nibelungen  Hoard,  by  way  of  Morgengabe 
(or,  as  we  may  say,  Jointure)  ; and  the  high-tide,  though 
not  the  honeymoon  being  past,  returned  to  Netherland  with 
his  spouse,  to  be  welcomed  there  with  infinite  rejoicings,- — 
we  have  gone  through  as  it  were  the  First  Act  of  this 
Tragedy ; and  may  here  pause  to  look  round  us  for  a mo- 
ment. The  main  characters  are  now  introduced  on  the  scene, 
the  relations  that  bind  them  together  are  dimly  sketched 
out : there  is  the  prompt,  cheerfully  heroic,  invulnerable  and 
invincible  Siegfried,  now  happiest  of  men;  the  high  Chriem- 
hild, fitly-mated,  and  if  a moon,  revolving  glorious  round 
her  sun,  or  Friedel  (joy  and  darling)  ; not  without  pride  and 
female  aspirings,  yet  not  prouder  than  one  so  gifted  and 
placed  is  pardonable  for  being.  On  the  other  hand,  we  have 
King  Gunther,  or  rather  let  us  say  king’s-mantle  Gunther, 
for  never  except  in  that  one  enterprise  of  courting  Brunhild, 
in  which  too,  without  help,  he  would  have  cut  so  poor  a fig- 
ure, does  the  worthy  sovereign  show  will  of  his  own,  or  char- 
acter other  than  that  of  good  potter’s  clay ; farther,  the  sus- 
picious, forecasting,  yet  stout  and  reckless  Hagen,  him  with 
the  rapid  glances,  and  these  turned  not  too  kindly  on  Sieg- 
fried, whose  prowess  he  has  used  yet  dreads,  whose  Nibe- 
lungen  Hoard  lie  perhaps  already  covets  ; lastly,  the  rigorous 
and  vigorous  Brunhild,  of  whom  also  more  is  to  be  feared 
than  hoped.  Considering  the  fierce  nature  of  these  now 
mingled  ingredients  ; and  how,  except  perhaps  in  the  case  of 
Gunther,  there  is  no  menstruum  of  placid  stupidity  to  soften 
them ; except  in  Siegfried,  no  element  of  heroic  truth  to  mas- 
ter them  and  bind  them  together, — unquiet  fermentation  may 
readily  be  apprehended. 

Meanwhile,  for  a season  all  is  peace  and  sunshine.  Sieg- 
fried reigns  in  Netherland,  of  which  his  father  has  surren- 
dered him  the  crown  ; Chriemhild  brings  him  a son,  whom 
in  honor  of  the  uncle  he  christens  Gunther,  which  courtesy 
the  uncle  and  Brunhild  repay  in  kind.  The  Nibelungen 
Hoard  is  still  open  and  inexhaustible  ; Dwarf  Alberich  and 
all  the  Kecken  there  still  loyal  ; outward  relations  friendly. 

7 


98 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


internal  supremely  prosperous : these  are  halcyon  days. 
But,  alas,  they  cannot  last.  Queen  Brunhild,  retaining  •with 
true  female  tenacity  her  first  notion,  right  or  wrong,  reflects 
one  day  that  Siegfried,  who  is  and  shall  be  nothing  but  her 
husband’s  vassal,  has  for  a long  while  paid  him  no  service ; 
and,  determined  on  a remedy,  manages  that  Siegfried  and 
his  queen  shall  be  invited  to  a high-tide  at  Worms,  where 
opportunity  may  chance  for  enforcing  that  claim.  Thither 
accordingly,  after  ten  years’  absence,  we  find  these  illustrious 
guests  returning  ; Siegfried  escorted  by  a thousand  Nibe- 
lungen  Bitters,  and  farther  by  his  father  Siegemund  who 
leads  a train  of  Netherlanders.  Here  for  eleven  days,  amid 
infinite  j oustings,  there  is  a true  heaven-on-earth ; but  the 
apple  of  discord  is  already  lying  in  the  knightly  ling,  and 
two  Women,  the  proudest  and  keenest-tempered  of  the 
world,  simultaneously  stoop  to  lift  it.  A ventiure  Fourteenth 
is  entitled  ‘ How  the  two  queens  rated  one  another.’  Never 
was  courtlier  Billingsgate  uttered,  or  which  came  more  di- 
rectly home  .to  the  business  and  bosoms  of  women.  The 
subject  is  that  old  story  of  Precedence,  which  indeed,  from 
the  time  of  Cain  and  Abel  downwards,  has  wrought  such 
effusion  of  blood  and  bile  both  among  men  and  women  : 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  all  armaments  and  battle-fields, 
whether  Blenheims  and  Waterloos,  or  only  plate-displays, 
and  tongue-and-eye  skirmishes,  in  the  circle  of  domestic  Tea  : 
nay,  the  very  animals  have  it ; and  horses,  were  they  but 
the  miserablest  Shelties  and  Welsh  ponies,  will  not  graze 
together  till  it  has  been  ascertained,  by  clear  fight,  who.  is 
master  of  whom,  and  a proper  drawing-room  etiquette  estab- 
lished. 

Brunhild  and  Chriemliild  take  to  arguing  about  the  merits 
of  their  husbands  : the  latter,  fondly  expatiating  on  the  pre- 
eminence of  her  Friedel,  how  he  walks  ‘ like  the  moon  among 
stars  ’ before  all  other  men,  is  reminded  by  her  sister  that  one 
man  at  least  must  be  excepted,  the  mighty  King  Gunther  of 
Worms,  to  whom  by  his  own  confession  long  ago  at  Isenstein, 
he  is  vassal  and  servant.  Chriemliild  will  sooner  admit  that 
clay  is  above  sunbeams,  than  any  such  proposition ; which 


THE  N I BEL  UN  G EW  LIED. 


9?) 


therefore  she,  in  all  politeness,  requests  of  her  sister  never-' 
more  to  touch  upon  while  she  lives.  The  result  may  be  fore- 
seen : rejoinder  follows  reply,  statement  grows  assertion ; 
Hint-sparks  have  fallen  on  the  dry  flax,  which  from  smoke 
bursts  into  conflagration.  The  two  queens  part  in  hottest, 
though  still  clear-flaming  anger.  Not,  however,  to  let  their 
anger  burn  out,  but  only  to  feed  it  with  more  solid  fuel. 
Chriemhild  dresses  her  forty  maids  in  finer  than  royal  ap- 
parel ; orders  out  all  her  husband’s  Recken  ; and  so  attended, 
walks  foremost  to  the  Minster,  where  mass  is  to  be  said  ; 
thus  practically  asserting  that  she  is  not  only  a true  queen, 
but  the  worthier  of  the  two.  Brunhild,  quite  outdone  in 
splendour,  and  enraged  beyond  all  patience,  overtakes  her  at 
the  door  of  the  Minster,  with  peremptory  order  to  stop  : “ be- 
fore king’s  wife  shall  vassal’s  never  go.” 

Then  said  the  fair  Chriemhild,  Right  angry  was  her  mood : 

“ Couldest  thou  hut  hold  thy  peace,  It  were  surely  for  thy  good  ; 
Thyself  hast  all  polluted  "With  shame  thy  fair  bodye  ; 

How  can  a Concubine  By  right  a King’s  wife  be  '!  ” 

“Whom  hast  thou  Concubined  ?”  The  King’s  wife  quickly  spake  ; 
“That  do  I thee,”  said  Chriemhild;  “For  thy  pride  and  vaunting’s 
sake  ; 

Who  first  had  thy  fair  body  Was  Siegfried  my  beloved  Man  ; 

My  Brother  it  was  not  That  thy  maidhood  from  thee  wan.” 


. In  proof  of  which  outrageous  saying,  she  produces  that 
Ring  and  Girdle  ; the  innocent  conquest  of  which,  as  we  well 
know,  had  a far  other  origin.  Brunhild  burst  into  tears  ; 
‘ sadder  day  she  never  saw.’  Nay,  perhaps  a new  light  now 
rose  on  her  over  much  that  had  been  dark  in  her  late  history  ; 
‘she  rued  full  sore  that  ever  she  was  born.’ 

Here,  then,  is  the  black  injury,  which  only  blood  will  wash 
away.  The  evil  fiend  has  begun  his  work  ; and  the  issue  of 
it  lies  beyond  man’s  control.  Siegfried  may  protest  his  in*- 
nocence  of  that  calumny,  and  chastise  his  indiscreet  spouse 
for  uttering  it  even  in  the  heat  of  anger  : the  female  heart 
.is  wounded  beyond  healing  ; the  old  springs  of  bitterness 


100 


THE  NIBEL  UNGEN  LIED. 


against  this  hero  unite  into  a fell  flood  of  hate  ; while  he  sees 
the  sunlight,  she  cannot  know  a joyful  hour.  Vengeance  is 
soon  offered  her : Hagen,  who  lives  only  for  his  prince,  un- 
dertakes this  bad  service  ; by  treacherous  professions  of  at- 
tachment, and  anxiety  to  guard  Siegfried's  life,  he  gains  from 
Chriemhild  the  secret  of  his  vulnerability  ; Siegfried  is  car- 
ried out  to  hunt ; and  in  the  hour  of  frankest  gaiety  is  stabbed 
through  the  fatal  spot  ; and,  felling  the  murderer  to  the 
ground,  dies  upbraiding  his  false  kindred,  yet,  with  a touch- 
ing simplicity,  recommending  his  child  and  wife  to  their  pro- 
tection. ‘ “ Let  her  feel  that  she  is  your  sister ; was  there 
‘ ever  virtue  in  princes,  be  true  to  her ; for  me  my  Father  and 
‘ my  men  shall  long  wait.”  The  flowers  all  around  wrere  wetted 
‘ with  blood,  then  he  straggled  with  death  ; not  long  did  he 
‘ this,  the  weapon  cut  him  too  keen ; so  he  could  speak  naught 
‘more,  the  Recke  bold  and  noble.’ 

At  this  point,  we  might  say,  ends  the  Third  Act  of  our 
Tragedy  ; the  whole  story  henceforth  takes  a darker  charac- 
ter ; it  is  as  if  a tone  of  sorrow  and  fateful  boding  became 
more  and  more  audible  in  its  free,  light  music.  Evil  has  pro- 
duced new  evil  in  fatal  augmentation  : injury  is  abolished ; 
but  in  its  stead  there  is  guilt  and  despair.  Chriemhild,  an 
hour  ago  so  rich,  is  now  robbed  of  all : her  grief  is  boundless 
as  her  love  has  been.  No  glad  thought  can  ever  more  dwell 
in  her  ; darkness,  utter  night  has  come  over  her,  as  she  looked 
into  the  red  of  morning.  The  spoiler  took  walks  abroad  un- 
punished ; the  bleeding  corpse  witnesses  against  Hagen,  nay 
lie  himself  cares  not  to  hide  the  deed.  But  who  is  there  to 
avenge  the  friendless  ? Siegfried’s  Father  has  returned  in 
haste  to  his  own  land  ; Chriemhild  is  now  alone  on  the  earth, 
her  husband’s  grq.ve  is  all  that  remains  to  her  ; there  only  can 
she  sit,  as  if  waiting  at  the  threshold  of  her  own  dark  home  ; 
and  in  prayers  and  tears  pour  out  the  sorrow  and  love  that 
have  no  end.  Still  farther  injuries  are  heaped  on  her  : by 
advice  of  the  crafty  Hagen,  Gunther,  who  had  not  planned 
the  murder,  yet  permitted  and  witnessed  it,  now  comes  with 
whining  professions  of  repentance  and  good-will ; persuades 
her  to  send  for  the  Nibelungen  Hoard  to  Worms  ; where  no. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIEU. 


101 


sooner  is  it  arrived,  than  Hagen  and  the  rest  forcibly  take  it 
from  her  ; and  her  last  trust  in  affection  or  truth  from  mortal 
is  rudely  cut  away.  Bent  to  the  earth,  she  weeps  only  for 
her  lost  Siegfried,  knows  no  comfort,  but  wall  weep  forever. 

One  lurid  gleam  of  hope,  after  long  years  of  darkness,  breaks 
in  on  her,  in  the  prospect  of  revenge.  King  Etzel  sends  from 
his  far  country  to  solicit  her  hand  : the  embassy  she  hears  at 
first,  as  a woman  of  ice  might  do  ; the  good  Rudiger,  Etzel’s 
spokesman,  pleads  in  vain  that  this  king  is  the  richest  of  all 
earthly  kings  ; that  he  is  so  lonely  ‘ since  Frau  Helke  died  ; ’ 
that  though  a heathen,  he  has  Christians  about  him,  and  may 
one  day  be  converted  : till  at  length,  when  he  hints  distantly 
at  the  power  of  Etzel  to  avenge  her  injuries,  she  on  a sudden 
becomes  all  attention.  Hagen,  forseeing  such  possibilities, 
protests  against  the  match  ; but  is  overruled : Chriemhild 
departs  with  Rudiger  for  the  land  of  the  Huns  ; taking  cold 
leave  of  her  relations  ; only  two  of  whom,  her  brothers  Ger- 
not  and  Geiselher,  innocent  of  that  murder,  does  she  admit 
near  her  as  convoy  to  the  Donau. 

The  Nibelungen  Hoard  has  hitherto  been  fatal  to  all  its 
possessors  ; to  the  two  sons  of  Nibelung  ; to  Siegfried  its  con- 
queror ; neither  does  the  Burgundian  Royal  House  fare  better 
with  it.  Already,  discords  threatening  to  arise,  Hagen  sees 
prudent  to  sink  it  in  the  Rhine  ; first  taking  oath  of  Gunther 
and  his  brothers,  that  none  of  them  shall  reveal  the  hiding- 
place,  wdiile  any  of  the  rest  is  alive.  But  the  curse  that  clave 
to  it  could  not  be  sunk  there.  The  Nibelun  gen-land  is  now 
theirs  : they  themselves  are  henceforth  called  Nibelungen  ; 
and  this  history  of  their  fate  is  the  Nibelungen  Song,  or  Nibe- 
lungen Noth  (Nibelungen’s  Need,  extreme  need,  or  final  wreck 
and  abolition). 

The  Fifth  Act  of  our  strange  eventful  history  now  draws 
on.  Chriemhild  has  a kind  husband,  of  hospitable  disposi- 
tion,  who  troubles  himself- little  about  her  secret  feelings  and 
intents.  With  his  permission,  she  sends  two  minstrels,  in- 
viting the  Burgundian  Court  to  a higli-tide  at  Etzel's  : she 
. has  charged  the  messengers  to  say  that  she  is  happy,  and  to 
bring  all  Gunther’s  champions  with  them.  Her  eye  was  on 


102 


TEE  NIB  EL  UNO  EE  LIED. 


Hagen,  but  she  could  not  single  Lim  from  the  rest.  After 
seven  days’  deliberation,  Gunther  answers  that  he  will  come. 
Hagen  has  loudly  dissuaded  the  journey,  but  again  been  over- 
ruled. ‘It  is  his  fate,’  says  a commentator,  ‘like  Cassandra’s, 
‘ ever  to  foresee  the  evil,  and  ever  to  be  disregarded.  He 
‘ himself  shut  his  ear  against  the  inward  voice  ; and  now  his 
4 warnings  are  uttered  to  the  deaf.’  He  argues  long,  but  hi 
vain  : nay  young  Gernot  hints  at  last  that  this  aversion  orig- 
inates in  personal  fear : 

Then  spake  Yon  Troneg  Hagen  : “ Nowise  is  it  through  fear ; 

So  you  command  it,  Heroes,  Then  up,  gird  on  your  gear  ; 

I ride  with  you  the  foremost  Into  King  Etzel’s  land.” 

Since  then  full  many  a helm  Was  shivered  by  his  hand. 

Frau  Ute’s  dreams  and  omens  are  now  unavailing  with 
him  ; “ whoso  heedeth  dreams,”  said  Hagen,  “ of  the  light 
story  wotteth  not : ” he  has  computed  the  worst  issue,  and 
defied  it. 

Many  a little  touch  of  pathos,  and  even  solemn  beauty  lies 
carelessly  scattered  in  these  rhymes,  had  we  space  to  exhibit 
such  here.  As  specimens  of  a strange,  winding,  diffuse,  yet 
innocently  graceful  style  of  narrative,  we  had  translated  some 
considerable  portion  of  this  Twenty-fifth  Aventiure,  ‘ How  the 
Nibelungen  marched  (fared)  to  the  Huns,’  into  verses  as  literal 
as  might  be  ; which  now,  alas,  look  mournfully  different  from 
the  original  ; almost  like  Scriblerus’s  shield  when  the  barba- 
rian housemaid  had  scoured  it ! Nevertheless,  to  do  for  the 
reader  what  we  can,  let  somewhat  of  that  modernised  ware, 
such  as  it  is,  be  set  before  him.  The  brave  Nibelungen  are 
on  the  eve  of  departure  ; and  about  ferrying  over  the  Rhine  : 
and  here  it  may  be  noted  that  Worms, 1 with  our  old  Singer, 

1 This  City  of  Worms,  had  we  a right  imagination,  ought  to  be  as  vener- 
able to  us  Moderns,  as.  any  Thebes  or  Troy  was  to  the  Ancients.  Whether 
founded  by  the  Cods  or  not,  it  is  of  quite  unknown  antiquity,  and  has 
witnessed  the  most  wonderful  things.  Within  authentic  times,  the  Ho- 
mans were  here  ; and  if  tradition  may  be  credited,  Attila  also  ; it  was  the 
seat  of  the  Austrasian  kings  ; the  frequent  residence  of  Charlemagne 
himself  ; innumerable  Festivals,  High-tides,  Tournaments  and  Imperial 


THE  NIB  EL  UNGEN  LIED. 


103 


lies  not  in  its  true  position,- but  at  some  distance  from  tlie 
river  ; a proof  at  least  that  he  was  never  there,  and  probably 
sang  and  lived  in  some  very  distant  region  : 

The  boats  were  floating  ready,  And  many  men  there  were  ; 

What  clothes  of  price  they  had  They  took  and  stow’d  them  there 
Was  never  a rest  from  toiling  Until  the  eventide, 

Then  they  took  the  flood  right  gaily,  Would  longer  not  abide. 

Brave  tents  and  hutches  You  saw  raised  on  the  grass, 

Other  side  the  Rliine-stream  That  camp  it  pitched  was  : 

The  king  to  stay  a while  Was  besought  of  his  fair  wife  ; 

That  night  she  saw  him  with  her,  And  never  more  in  life. 

Trumpets  and  flutes  spoke  out,  At  dawning  of  the  day, 

That  time  was  come  for  parting,  So  they  rose  to  march  away : 

Who  loved-one  had  in  arms  Did  kiss  that  same,  I ween  ; 

And  fond  farewells  were  bidden  By  cause  of  Etzel’s  Queen. 

Diets  were  held  in  it,  of  which  latter,  one  at  least,  that  where  Luther  ap- 
peared in  1521,  will  be  forever  remembered  by  all  mankind.  Nor  is 
Worms  more  famous  in  history  than,  as  indeed  we  may  see  here,  it  is  in 
romance  ; whereof  many  monuments  and  vestiges  remain  to  this  clay. 
‘ A pleasant  meadow  there,’  says  Yon  der  Hagen,  ‘ is  still  called  Chriem- 
‘ lxild’s  Bosengarten.  The  name  Worms  itself  is  derived  (by  Legendary 
‘ Etymology)  from  the  Dragon,  or  Worm,  which  Siegfried  slew,  the  figure 
‘ of  which  once  formed  the  City  Arms  ; in  past  times,  there  was  also  to 
‘ be  seen  here  an  ancient  strong  Bicsen-ETaus  (Giant’s  house),  and  many 
' a memorial  of  Siegfried : his  Lance,  66  feet  long  (almost  80  English 
‘ feet),  in  the  Cathedral ; his  Statue,  of  gigantic  size,  on  the  Neue  Thurm 
‘ (New  Tower)  on  the  Rhine  ; ’ &c.  &c.  ‘ And  lastly  the  Siegfried’s  Chapel, 
‘ in  primeval,  Pre-Gothic  architecture,  not  long  since  pulled  down. 
‘ In  the  time  of  the  Meislers'dngers  too,  the  Stadtrath  was  bound  to  give 
‘ every  Master,  who  sang  the  Lay  of  Siegfried  ( Meisterlied  ton  Siegfrie- 
‘ den  the  purport  of  which  is  now  unknown)  without  mistake,  a certain 
1 gratuity.’ — Glossary  to  the  Nibelungen , § Worms. 

One  is  sorry  to  learn  that  this  famed  Imperial  City  is  no  longer  Impe- 
rial but  much  fallen  in  every  way  from  its  palmy  state  ; the  30,000  in- 
habitants to  be  found  there  in  Gustavus  Adolphus’  time,  having  now 
declined  into  some  6,800, — ‘ who  maintain  themselves  by  wine-growing, 
Rhine-boats,  tobacco-manufacture,  and  making  sugar-of-lead.  ’ So  hard 
has  war,  which  respects  nothing,  pressed  on  Worms,  ill-placed  for  safety, 
on  the  hostile  border:  Louvois,  or  Louis  XIV.,  in  1689,  had  it  utterly 
devastated  ; whereby  in  the  interior,  ‘ spaces  that  were  once  covered 
with  buildings  are  now  gardens.’ — See  Conv.  Lexicon,  § Worms. 


104 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


Frau  Ute’s  noble  sons  They  had  a serving-man, 

A brave  one  and  a true  : Or  ever  the  march  began, 

He  speaketh  to  King  Gunther,  What  for  his  ear  was  fit, 

He  said  : “ Woe  for  this  journey,  I grieve  because  of  it.” 

He  Rum  old  hight,  the  Sewer,  Was  known  as  hero  true  ; 

He  spake  : “ Whom  shall  this  people  And  land  be  trusted  to  ? 

Woe  on’t,  will  naught  persuade  ye,  Brave  Recken,  from  this  road! 
Frau  Chriemhild’s  flattering  message  No  good  doth  seem  to  bode.” 

“ The  land  to  thee  be  trusted,  And  my  fair  boy  also, 

And  serve  thou  well  the  women,  I tell  thee  ere  I go  ; 

Whomso  thou  findest  weeping  Her  heart  give  comfort  to  ; 

No  harm  to  one  of  us  King  Etzel’s  wife  will  do.” 

The  steeds  were  standing  ready,  For  the  Kings  and  for  their  men ; 
With  kisses  tenderest  Took  leave  full  many  then, 

Who,  in  gallant  cheer  and  hope,  To  march  were  naught  afraid: 
Them  since  that  day  bewaileth  Many  a noble  wife  and  maid. 

But  when  the  rapid  Recken  Took  horse  and  prickt  away, 

The  women  shent  in  sorrow  You  saw  behind  them  stay  ; 

Of  parting  all  too  long  Their  hearts  to  them  did  tell ; 

When  grief  so  great  is  coming;  The  mind  forbodes  not  well. 

Nathless  the  brisk  Burgoden  All  on  their  way  did  go, 

Then  rose  the  country  over  A mickle  dole  and  woe  ; 

On  both  sides  of  the  hills  Woman  and  man  did  weep : 

Let  their  folk  do  how  they  list,  These  gay  their  course  did  keep. 

The  Nibelungen  Recken  1 Did  march  with  them  as  well, 

In  a thousand  glittering  hauberks,  Who  at  home  had  ta’en  farewell 
Of  many  a fair  woman  Should  see  them  never  more : 

The  wound  of  her  brave  Siegfried  Did  grieve  Cliriemliilde  sore. 

Then  ’gan  they  shape  their  journey  Towards  the  River  Maine, 

All  on  through  Bast -Franconia,  King  Gunther  and  his  train  ; 

Hagen  he  was  their  leader,  Of  old  did  know  the  way  ; 

Dankwart  did  keep,  as  marshal,  Their  ranks  in  good  array. 

' These  are  the  Nibelungen  proper  who  had  come  toWorms  with  Sieg- 
fried, on  the  famed  bridal  journey  from  Isenstein,  long  ago  Observe,  at 
the  same  time,  that  ever  since  the  Nibelungen  Hoard  was  transferred  to 
Rhine-land,  the  whole  subjects  of  King  Gunther  are  often  called  Nibel- 
ungen, and  their  subsequent  history  is  this  Nibelungen  Song. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


105 


As  they,  from  East-Franconia,  The  Salfield  rode  along, 

Might  you  have  seen  them  prancing,  A bright  and  lordly  throng, 
The  Princes  and  their  vassals,  All  heroes  of  great  fame  : 

The  twelfth  morn  brave  King  Gunther  Unto  the  Donau  came. 

There  rode  Yon  Troneg  Hagen,  The  foremost  of  that  host, 

He  was  to  the  Kibelungen  The  guide  they  lov’d  the  most : 

The  Ritter  keen  dismounted,  Set  foot  on  the  sandy  ground, 

His  steed  to  a tree  he  tied,  Look’d  wistful  all  around. 

“ Much  scaitli,”  Von  Troneg  said,  “ May  lightly  chance  to  thee, 
King  Gunther,  by  this  tide,  As  thou  with  eyes  mayst  see  : 

The  river  is  overflowing,  Full  strong  runs  here  its  stream, 

For  crossing  of  this  Donau  Some  counsel  might  well  beseem.” 

“ What  counsel  hast  thou,  brave  Hagen,”  King  Gunther  then  did  say 
“ Of  thy  own  wit  and  cunning  ? Dishearten  me  not,  I pray  : 

Thyself  the  ford  wilt  find  us,  If  knightly  skill  it  can, 

That  safe  to  yonder  shore  We  may  pass  both  horse  and  man.” 

“ To  me,  I trow,”  spake  Hagen,  “ Life  hath  not  grown  so  cheap 
To  go  with  will  and  drown  me  In  riding  these  waters  deep  ; 

But  first,  of  men  some  few  By  this  hand  of  mine  shall  die, 

In  great  King  Etzel’s  country,  As  best  good-will  have  I. 

“ But  bide  ye  here  by  the  River,  Ye  Ritters  brisk  and  sound, 
Myself  will  seek  some  boatman,  If  boatman  here  be  found, 

To  row  us  at  liis  ferry,  Across  to  Gelfrat  s land  : ” 

The  Troneger  grasped  his  buckler.  Fared  forth  along  the  strand. 

He  was  full  bravely  harness’d,  Himself  he  knightly  bore, 

With  buckler  and  with  helmet,  Which  bright  enough  he  wore  ; 

And,  bound  above  his  hauberk,  A weapon  broad  was  seen, 

That  cut  with  both  its  edges,  Was  never  sword  so  keen. 

Then  hither  he  and  thither  Search’d  for  the  Ferryman, 

He  heard  a splashing  of  waters,  To  watch  the  same  he  ’gan, 

It  was  the  white  Mer-women,  That  in  a fountain  clear, 

To  cool  their  fair  bodyes,  Were  merrily  bathing  here. 

From  these  Mer-women,  who  ‘ shimmed  aloof  like  white 
cygnets  ’ at  sight  of  him,  Hagen  snatches  up  ‘ their  wondrous 
raiment  ; ’ on  condition  of  returning  which,  they  rede  him 
his  fortune ; how  this  expedition  is  to  speed.  At  first  favour- 


106 


TIIE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


She  said  : “To  Etzel’s  country,  Of  a truth  ye  well  may  hie, 

For  here  I pledge  my  hand,  Now  kill  me  if  I lie, 

That  heroes  seeking  honour  Did  never  arrive  thereat 
So  richly  as  ye  shall  do,  Believe  thou  surely  that.” 

But  no  sooner  is  the  wondrous  raiment  restored  them,  than 
they  change  their  tale  ; for  in  spite  of  that  matchless  honour 
it  appears  every  one  of  the  adventurous  Beckon  is  to  perish. 

Outspake  the  wild  Mer-woman  : “I  tell  thee  it  will  arrive, 

Of  all  your  gallant  host  No  man  shall  be  left  alive, 

Except  King  Gunther  s chaplain,  As  we  full  well  do  know  ; 

He  only,  home  returning,  To  the  Rhine-land  back  shall  go.” 

Then  spake  Yon  Troneg  Hagen,  His  wrath  did  fiercely  swell: 

“ Such  tidings  to  my  master  I were  right  loath  to  tell, 

That  in  King  Etzel’s  country  We  all  must  lose  our  life  : 

Yet  show  me  over  the  water,  Thou  wise  all-knowing  wife .” 

Thereupon,  seeing  him  bent  on  ruin,  she  gives  directions 
how  to  find  the  ferry,  but  withal  counsels  him  to  deal  warily ; 
the  ferry-house  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  river ; the 
boatman,  too,  is  not  only  the  hottest-tempered  of  men,  but 
rich  and  indolent  ; nevertheless,  if  nothing  else  will  serve,  let 
Hagan  call  himself  Amelrich,  and  that  name  will  bring  him. 
All  happens  as  predicted  : the  boatman,  heedless  of  all  shout- 
ing and  offers  of  gold  clasps,  bestirs  him  lustily  at  the  name 
of  Amelrich  ; but  the  more  indignant  is  he,  on  taking-in  his 
fare,  to  find  it  a counterfeit.  He  orders  Hagen,  if  he  loves 
his  life,  to  leap  out. 

“ Now  say  not  that,”  spake  Hagen  ; “ Right  hard  am  I bested, 

Take  from  me  for  good  friendship  This  clasp  of  gold  so  red  ; 

And  row  our  thousand  heroes  And  steeds  across  this  river.” 

Then  spake  the  wrathful  boatman,  “That  will  I surely  never.” 

Then  one  of  his  oars  he  lifted,  Right  broad  it  was  and  long, 

He  struck  it  down  on  Hagen,  Did  the  hero  mickle  wrong, 

That  in  the  boat  he  staggered,  And  alighted  on  his  knee  ; 

Other  such  wrathful  boatman  Did  never  the  Troneger  see. 


THE  NIBEL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


107 


His  proud  unbidden  guest  Fe  would  now  provoke  still  more, 

He  struck  his  head  so  stoutly  That  it  broke  in  twain  the  oar, 

With  strokes  on  head  of  Hagen  ; He  was  a sturdy  wight : 

Nathless  had  Gelfrat  s boatman  Small  profit  of  that  fight. 

With  fiercely  raging  spirit,  The  Troneger  turn'd  him  round, 
Clutch’d  quick  enough  his  scabbard,  And  a weapon  there  he  found  ; 
He  smote  his  head  from  off  him,  And  cast  it  on  the  sand, 

Thus  had  that  wrathful  boatman  His  death  from  Hagen's  hand. 

Even  as  Von  Troneg  Hagen  The  wrathful  boatman  slew, 

The  boat  whirl’d  round  to  the  river,  He  had  work  enough  to  do  ; 

Or  ever  he  turn'd  it  sliorewards,  To  weary  he  began, 

But  kept  full  stoutly  rowing,  The  bold  King  Gunther’s  man. 

He  wheel'd  it  back,  brave  Hagen,  'With  many  a lusty  stroke, 

The  strong  oar,  with  such  rowing,  In  his  hand  asunder  broke  ; 

He  fain  would  reach  the  Recken,  All  waiting  on  the  shore, 

No  tackle  now  he  had  ; Hei,1  how  deftly  he  spliced  the  oar, 

With  thong  from  off  his  buckler  ! It  was  a slender  band  ; 

Right  over  against  a forest  He  drove  the  boat  to  land  ; 

Where  Gunther  s Recken  waited,  In  crowds  along  the  beach  ; 

Full  many  a goodly  hero  Moved  down  his  boat  to  reach. 

Hagen  ferries  them  over  himself  ‘ into  the  unknown  land, 
like  a right  yare  steersman ; yet  ever  brooding  fiercely  on  that 
prediction  of  the  wild  Mer- woman,  which  had  outdone  even 
his  own  dark  forebodings.  Seeing  the  Chaplain,  who  alone 
of  them  all  was  to  return,  standing  in  the  boat  beside  his 
chappelsoume  (pyxes  and  other  sacred  furniture),  he  deter- 
mines to  belie  at  least  this  part  of  the  prophecy,  and  on  a 
sudden  hurls  the  chaplain  overboard.  Nay  as  the  poor  priest 
swims  after  the  boat,  he  pushes  him  down,  regardless  of  all 
remonstrance,  resolved  that  he  shall  die.  Nevertheless  it 

1 These  apparently  insignificant  circumstances,  down  even  to  mend- 
ing the  oar  from  his  sliiel  1,  are  preserved  with  a singular  fidelity  in  the 
most  distorted  editions  of  the  Tale  : see,  for  example,  the  Danish  ballad, 
Lady  GrimhiZd's  Wrack  (translated  in  the  Northern  Antiquities , p.  275, 
by  Mr.  Jamieson).  This  ‘ Hei /’  is  a brisk  interjection,  whereby  the 
worthy  old  Singer  now  and  then  introduces  his  own  person,  when  any- 
thing very  eminent  is  going  forward. 


108 


THE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


proved  not  so  : the  chaplain  made  for  the  other  side ; when 
his  strength  failed,  ‘ then  God’s  hand  helped  him,’  and  at 
length  he  reached  the  shore.  Thus  does  the  stern  truth  stand 
revealed  to  Hagen,  by  the  very  means  he  took  for  eluding  it : 
‘ he  thought  with  himself  these  Recken  must  all  lose  their 
lives.’  From  this  time,  a grim  reckless  spirit  takes  possession 
of  him  ; a courage,  an  audacity,  waxing  more  and  more  into 
the  fixed  strength  of  desperation.  The  passage  once  finished, 
he  dashes  the  boat  in  pieces,  and  casts  it  in  the  stream,  greatly 
as  the  others  wonder  at  him. 


“ Why  do  ye  this,  good  brother  ? Said  the  Ritter  Dankwart  then  ; 
“ How  shall  we  cross  this  river,  When  the  road  we  come  again  ? 
Returning  home  from  Hunland,  Here  must  we  lingering  stay  ? ” — 
Not  then  did  Hagen  tell  him  That  return  no  more  could  they. 


In  this  shipment  ‘ into  the  unknown  land,’  there  lies,  for 
the  more  penetrating  sort  of  commentators,  some  hidden 
meaning  and  allusion.  The  destruction  of  the  unreturning 
Ship,  as  of  the  Ship  Argo,  of  iEneas’s  Ships,  and  the  like, 
is  a constant  feature  of  such  traditions  : it  is  thought,  this 
ferrying  of  the  Nibelungen  has  a reference  to  old  Scandina- 
vian Mythuses  ; nay,  to  the  oldest,  most  universal  emblems 
shaped  out  by  man’s  Imagination  ; Hagen  the  ferryman 
being,  in  some  sort,  a type  of  Heath,  who  ferries  over  his 
thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  into  a Land  still  more  un- 
known.1 

But  leaving  these  considerations,  let  us  remark  the  deep 
fearful  interest,  which,  in  gathering  strength,  rises  to  a really 
tragical  height  in  the  close  of  this  Poem.  Strangely  has 
the  old  Singer,  in  these  his  loose  melodies,  modulated  the 
wild  narrative  into  a poetic  whole,  with  what  we  might  call 
true  art,  were  it  not  rather  an  instinct  of  genius  still  more 
unerring.  A fateful  gloom  now  hangs  over  the  fortunes  of 
the  Nibelungen,  which  deepens  and  deepens  as  they  march 
onwards  to  the  judgment-bar,  till  all  are  engulfed  in  utter 
night. 

1 See  Von  der  Hagen’s  Nibelungen  Hire  Bedeutung , Sec. 


TEE  NIBEL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


109 


Hagen  himself  rises  in  tragic  greatness ; so  helpful,  so 
prompt  and  strong  is  he,  and  true  to  the  death,  though  with- 
out hope.  If  sin  can  ever  be  pardoned,  then  that  one  act  of 
his  is  pardonable  ; by  loyal  faith,  by  free  daring  and  heroic 
constancy,  he  has  made  amends  for  it.  Well  does  he  know 
what  is  coming  ; yet  he  goes  forth  to  meet  it,  offers  to  Bum 
his  sullen  welcome.  Warnings  thicken  on  him,  which  he 
treats  lightly,  as  things  now  superfluous.  Spite  of  our  love 
for  Siegfried,  we  must  pity  and  almost  respect  the  lost  Ha- 
gen, now  in  his  extreme  need,  and  fronting  it  so  nobly. 
‘ Mixed  was  his  hair  with  a gray  colour,  his  limbs  strong, 
and  threatening  his  look.’  Nay,  his  sterner  qualities  are 
beautifully  tempered  by  another  feeling,  of  which  till  now  we 
understood  not  that  he  was  capable, — the  feeling  of  friend- 
ship. There  is  a certain  Volker  of  Alsace  here  introduced, 
not  for  the  first  time,  yet  first  in  decided  energy,  who  is  more 
to  Hagen  than  a brother.  This  Volker,  a courtier  and  noble, 
is  also  a Spielmann  (minstrel),  a Fidelere  gut  (fiddler  good)  ; 
and  surely  the  prince  of  all  Fideleres  ; in  truth  a very  phoenix, 
melodious  as  the  soft  nightingale,  yet  strong  ■ as  the  royal 
eagle  : for  also  in  the  brunt  of  battle  he  can  play  tunes  ; and, 
with  a Steel  Fiddlebow,  beats  strange  music  from  the  cleft  liel- 
ments  of  his  enemies.  There  is,  in  this  continual  allusion  to 
Volker ’s  Schwert-fidelbogen  (Sword -fiddlebow),  as  rude  as  it 
sounds  to  us,  a barbaric  greatness  and  depth  ; the  light  min- 
strel of  kingly  and  queenly  halls  is  gay  also  in  the  storm  of 
Fate,  its  dire  rushing  pipes  and  whistles  to  him : is  he  not 
the  image  of  every  brave  man  fighting  with  Necessity,  be  that 
duel  when  and  where  it  may  ; smiting  the  fiend  with  giant 
strokes,  yet  every  stroke  musical  ? — This  Volker  and  Hagen 
are  united  inseparably,  and  defy  death  together.  ‘ Whatever 
Volker  said  pleased  Hagen ; whatever  Hagen  did  pleased 
Volker.’ 

But  into  these  last  Ten  Aventiures,  almost  like  the  image  of 
a Doomsday,  we  must  hardly  glance  at  present.  Seldom,  per- 
haps, in  the  poetry  of  that  or  any  other  age,  has  a grander 
scene  of  pity  and  terror  been  exhibited  than  here,  could  we 
look  into  it  clearly.  At  every  new  step  new  shapes  of  fear 


110 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


arise.  Dietrich  of  Bern  meets  the  Nibelungen  on  their  way, 
with  ominous  warnings  : hut  warnings,  as  we  said,  are  now 
superfluous,  when  the  evil  itself  is  apparent  and  inevitable. 
Chriemhild,  wasted  and  exasperated  here  into  a frightful 
Medea,  openly  threatens  Hagen,  but  is  openly  defied  by  him  ; 
he  and  Volker  retire  to  a seat  before  her  palace,  and  sit 
there,  while  she  advances  in  angry  tears,  with  a crowd  of 
armed  Huns,  to  destroy  them.  But  Hagen  has  Siegfried’s 
Balmung  lying  naked  on  his  knee,  the  Minstrel  also  has 
drawn  his  keen  Fiddlebow,  and  the  Huns  dare  not  provoke 
the  battle.  Chriemhild  would  fain  single  out  Hagen  for  ven- 
geance ; but  Hagen,  like  other  men,  stands  not  alone ; and 
sin  is  an  infection  which  will  not  rest  with  one  victim.  Par- 
takers or  not  of  his  crime,  the  others  also  must  share  his 
punishment.  Singularly  touching,  in  the  mean  while,  is 
King  Etzel’s  ignorance  of  what  every  one  else  understands  too 
well ; and  how,  in  peaceful  hospitable  spirit,  he  exerts  himself 
to  testify  his  joy  over  these  royal  guests  of  his,  who  are  bid- 
den hither  for  far  other  ends.  That  night  the  wayworn  Nibe- 
lungen are  sumptuously  lodged  ; yet  Hagen  and  Yolker  see 
good  to  keep  watch  : Yolker  plays  themto  sleep : ‘ under  the 
‘ porch  of  the  house  he  sat  on  the  stone  : bolder  fiddler  was 
‘ there  never  any  ; when  the  tones  flowed  so  sweetly,  they  all 
‘ gave  him  thanks.  Then  sounded  his  strings  till  all  the 
‘ house  rang  ; his  strength  and  the  art  were  great ; sweeter 
‘ and  sweeter  he  began  to  play,  till  flitted  forth  from  him  into 
‘ sleep  full  many  a careworn  soul.’  It  was  them  last  lullaby  ; 
they  were  to  sleep  no  more.  Armed  men  appear,  but  sud- 
denly vanish,  in  the  night ; assassins  sent  by  Chriemhild, 
expecting  no  sentinel : it  is  plain  that  the  last  hour-  draws 
nigh. 

In  the  morning  the  Nibelungen  are  for  the  Minster  to 
hear  mass  ; they  are  putting  on  gay  raiment  ; but  Hagen 
tells  them  a different  tale  : ‘ “ ye  must  take  other  garments, 

‘ Becken  ; instead  of  silk  shirts  hauberks,,  for  rich  mantles, 
‘ your  good  shields  : and,  beloved  masters,  moreover  squires 
‘ and  men,  ye  shall  full  earnestly  go  to  the  church,  and  plain 
‘to  God  the  powerful  (Got  dem  richen ) of  your  sorrow  and 


THE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


Ill 


‘utmost  need  ; and  know  of  a surety  that  death  for  us  is 
• nigh.”  ’ In  Etzel's  Hall,  where  the  Nibelungen  appear  at 
the  royal  feast  in  complete  armour,  the  Strife,  incited  by 
Chriemhild,  begins ; the  first  answer  to  her  provocation  is 
from  Hagen,  who  hews  off  the  head  of  her  own  and  Etzel’s 
son,  making  it  bound  into  the  mother’s  bosom  : ‘ then  began 
among  the  Recken,  a murder  grim  and  great/  Dietrich, 
with  a voice  of  preternatural  power,  commands  pause  ; re- 
tires with  Etzel  and  Chriemhild  ; and  nowr  the  bloody  work 
has  free  course.  We  have  heard  of  battles,  and  massacres, 
and  deadly  straggles  in  siege  and  storm  ; but  seldom  has 
even  the  poet’s  imagination  pictured  any  tiling  so  fierce  and 
terrible  as  this.  Host  after  host,  as  they  enter  that  huge 
vaulted  Hall,  perish  in  conflict  with  the  doomed  Nibelungen  ; 
and  ever  after  the  terrific  uproar,  ensues  a still  more  terrific 
silence.  All  night,  and  through  morning  it  lasts.  They 
throw  the  dead  from  the  windows ; blood  runs  like  water  ; 
the  Hall  is  set  fire  to,  they  quench  it  with  blood,  them  own 
burning  thirst  they  slake  with  blood.  It  is  a tumult  like  the 
Crack  of  Doom,  a thousand-voiced,  wild-stunning  hubbub  ; 
and,  fiightful  like  a Tramp  of  Doom,  the  Sword-fiddleboio 
of  Yolker,  who  guards  the  door,  makes  music  to  that  death- 
dance.  Nor  are  traits  of  heroism  wanting,  and  thrilling 
tones  of  pity  and  love  ; as  in  that  act  of  Rudiger,  Etzel’s 
and  Chriemhild’s  champion,  who,  bound  by  oath,  ‘ lays  his 
soul  in  God’s  hand,’  and  enters  that  Golgotha  to  die  fighting 
against  his  friends  ; yet  first  changes  shields  with  Hagen, 
whose  owm,  also  given  him  by  Rudiger  in  a far  other  hour, 
had  been  shattered  in  the  fight.  ‘ When  he  so  lovingly  bade 
‘ give  him  the  shield,  there  were  eyes  enough  red  with  hot 
‘ tears ; it  was  the  last  gift  which  Rudiger  of  Bechelaren 
‘gave  to  any  Recke.  As  grim  as  Hagen  was,  and  as  hard 
‘ of  mind,  he  wept  at  this  gift  which  the  hero  good,  so  near 
‘ his  last  times,  had  given  him  ; full  many  a noble  Ritter 
‘ began  to  weep.’ 

At  last  Yolker  is  slain  ; they  are  all  slain,  save  only  Hagen 
and  Gunther,  faint  and  wounded,  yet  still  unconquered 
among  the  bodies  of  the  dead.  Dietrich  the  wary,  though 


112 


THE  N1BELUNGEN  LIED. 


strong  and  invincible,  whose  Reckon  too,  except  old  Hilde- 
brand, lie  now  finds  are  all  killed,  though  he  had  charged 
them  strictly  not  to  mix  in  the  quarrel,  at  last  arms  himself 
to  finish  it.  He  subdues  the  two  wearied  Nibelungen,  binds 
them,  delivers  them  to  Chriemhild  ; ‘ and  Herr  Dietrich  went 
‘ away  with  weeping  eyes,  worthily  from  the  heroes.’  These 
never  saw  each  other  more.  Chriemhild  demands  of  Hagen, 
Where  the  Nibeluugen  Hoard  is  ? But  he  answers  her,  that 
he  has  sworn  never  to  disclose  it,  while  any  of  her  brothers 
live.  “I  bring  it  to  an  end,”  said  the  infuriated  woman  ; 
orders  her  brother’s  head  to  be  struck  off,  and  holds  it  up  to 
Hagen.  ‘ “ Thou  hast  it  now  according  to  thy  will,”  said 
Hagen  ; “‘of  the  Hoard  knoweth  none  but  God  and  I ; from 
‘ thee,  she-devil  (ualendinne),  shall  it  forever  be  hid.”  ’ She 
kills  him  with  his  own  sword,  once  her  husband’s  ; and  is 
herself  struck  dead  by.  Hildebrand,  indignant  at  the  woe  she 
has  wrought ; King  Etzel,  there  present,  not  opposing  the 
deed.  Whereupon  the  curtain  drops  over  that  wild  scene  : 
‘ the  full  highly  honoured  were  lying  dead  ; the  people  all  had 
‘ sorrow  and  lamentation  ; in  grief  had  the  king’s  feast  ended, 
‘ as  all  love  is  wont  to  do  : ’ 

Ine  chan  iu  nicht  bescheiden  Waz  sicler  da  geschach , 

Wan  ritter  unde  unvmen  Weinen  man  do  sack, 

JJar-zuo  die  edeln  chnechte  Ir  lieben  vriunde  tot  : 

Ha  hat  das  nicer e ein  ende  ; Hiz  ist  der  JS'ibdunge  not 

I cannot  say  you  now  What  hatli  befallen  since  ; 

The  women  all  were  weeping,  And  the  Eitters  and  the  prince, 
Also  the  nohle  squires,  Their  dear  friends  lying  dead  : 

Here  hath  the  story  ending ; This  is  the  Nibelungen's  Neea. 

We  have  now  finished  our  slight  analysis  of  this  Poem  : 
and  hope  that  readers,  who  are  curious  in  this  matter,  and 
ask  themselves,  What  is  the  Nibelungen  ? may  have  here 
found  some  outlines  of  an  answer,  some  help  towards  farther 
researches  of  their  own.  To  such  readers  another  question 
will  suggest  itself  : Whence  this  singular  production  comes 
to  us,  When  and  How  it  originated  ? On  which  point  also. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


113 


what  little  light  our  investigation  has  yielded  may  be  sum- 
marily given. 

The  worthy  Yon  der  Hagen,  who  may  well  understand  the 
Nibelungen  better  than  any  other  man,  having  rendered  it 
into  the  modern  tongue,  and  twice  edited  it  in  the  original, 
not  without  collating  some  eleven  manuscripts,  and  travelling- 
several  thousands  of  miles  to  make  the  last  edition  perfect, — 
writes  a Book  some  years  ago,  rather  boldly  denominated  The 
Nibelungen,  its  Meaning  for  the  present  and  forever  ; wherein, 
not  content  with  any  measurable  antiquity  of  centuries,  he 
would  fain  claim  an  antiquity  beyond  all  bounds  of  dated 
time.  Working  his  way  with  feeble  mine-lamps  of  etymology 
and  the  like,  he  traces  back  the  rudiments  of  his  beloved 
Nibelungen,  ‘ to  which  the  flower  of  his  whole  life  has  been 
consecrated,’  into  the  thick  darkness  of  the  Scandinavian 
Nijiheim  and  Muspelheim,  and  the  Hindoo  Cosmogony  ; con- 
necting it  farther  (as  already  in  part  we  have  incidentally 
pointed  out)  with  the  Ship  Argo,  with  Jupiter’s  goatskin 
JEgis,  the  fire-creed  of  Zerdusht,  and  even  with  the  heavenly 
Constellations.  His  reasoning  is  somewhat  abstruse  ; yet  an 
honest  zeal,  very  considerable  learning  and  intellectual  force 
bring  him  tolerably  through.  So  much  he  renders  plausible 
or  probable  ; that  in  the  Nibelungen,  under  more  or  less 
defacement,  he  fragments,  scattered  like  mysterious  Runes, 
yet  still  in  part  decipherable,  of  the  earliest  Thoughts  of  men  ; 
that  the  fiction  of  the  Nibelungen  was  at  first  a religious 
or  philosophical  Mythus  ; and  only  in  later  ages,  incorporat- 
ing itself  more  or  less  completely  with  vague  traditions  of  real 
events,  took  the  form  of  a story,  or  mere  Narrative  of  earthly 
transactions  ; in  which  last  form,  moreover,  our  actual  Nibe- 
lungen Lied  is  nowise  the  original  Narrative,  but  the  second, 
or  even  the  third  redaction  of  one  much  earlier. 

At  what  particular  era  the  primeval  fiction  of  the  Nibelungen 
passed  from  its  Mythological  into  its  Historical  shape  ; and 
the. obscure  spiritual  elements  of  it  wedded  themselves  to  the 
obscure  remembrances  of  the  Northern  Immigrations  ; and 
the  Twelve  Signs  of  the  Zodiac  became  Twelve  Champions  of 
Attila’s  Wife, — there  is  no  fixing  with  the  smahest  certainty. 

8 


114 


TEE  NIBELJJ NGEE  LIED. 


It  is  known  from  history  that  Eginhart,  the  secretary  of 
Charlemagne,  compiled,  by  order  of  that  monarch,  a collection 
of  the  ancient  German  Songs  ; among  which,  it  is  fondly  be- 
lieved by  antiquaries,  this  Nibelungen  (not  indeed  our  actual 
Nibelungen  Lied,  yet  an-  older  one  of  similar  purport),  and  the 
main  traditions  of  the  Heldenbuch  connected  therewith,  may 
have  had  honourable  place.  Unluckily  Eginkart’s  Collection 
has  quite  perished,  and  only  his  Life  of  the  Great  Charles,  in 
which  this  circumstance  stands  noted,  survives  to  provoke 
curiosity.  One  thing  is  certain,  Fulco,  Archbishop  of 
Rheirns,  in  the  year  885,  is  introduced  as  ‘ citing  certain 
German  books,’  to  enforce  some  argument  of  his  by  instance 
of  ‘King Ermerich’s  crime  toward  his  relations  which  King 
Ermerich  and  his  crime  are  at  this  day  part  and  parcel  of  the 
‘ Cycle  of  German  Fiction,’  and  presupposed  in  the  Nibelungen.1 
Later  notices,  of  a more  decisive  sort,  occur  in  abundance. 
Saxo  Grammaticus,  who  flourished  in  the  twelfth  century,  re- 
lates that  about  the  year  1130,  a Saxon  minstrel  being  sent  to 
Seeland,  with  a treacherous  invitation  from  one  royal  Dane  to 
another  ; and  not  daring  to  violate  his  oath,  yet  compassionat- 
ing the  victim,  sang  to  him  by  way  of  indirect  warning  ‘the 
Song  of  Chriemhilcl’s  Treachery  to  her  Brothers  ; ’ that  is  to 
say,  the  latter  portion  of  the  Story  which  we  still  read  at 
greater  length  in  the  existing  Nibelungen  Lied.  To  which  di- 
rect evidence,  that  these  traditions  were  universally  known  in 
the  twelfth  century,  nay  had  been  in  some  shape  committed 
to  writing,  as  ‘ German  Books,’  in  the  ninth  or  rather  in  the 
eighth, — we  have  still  to  add  the  probability  of  their  being 
‘ ancient  songs,’  even  at  that  earliest  date  ; all  which  may 
perhaps  carry  us  back  into  the  seventh  or  even  sixth  century ; 
yet  not  farther,  inasmuch  as  certain  of  the  poetic  personages 
that  figure  in  them  belong  historically  to  the  fifth. 

Other  and  more  open  proof  of  antiquity  lies  in  the  fact, 
that  these  Traditions  are  so  universally  diffused.  There  are 
Danish  and  Icelandic  versions  of  them,  externally  more  or  less 
altered  and  distorted,  yet  substantially  real  copies,  professing 
indeed  to  be  borrowed  from  the  German  ; in  particular  we 
1 Yon  der  Hagen’s  Nibelungen,  Einleitung,  § vii. 


THE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


115 


have  the  Nijlinga  and  the  Wilkina  Saga,  composed  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  which  still  in  many  ways  illustrate  the  Ger- 
man original.  Innumerable  other  songs  and  sagas  point  more 
remotely  in  the  same  direction.  Nay,  as  Von  der  Hagen  in- 
forms us,  certain  rhymed  tales,  founded  on  these  old  advent- 
ures, have  been  recovered  from  popular  recitation  in  the 
Faroe  Islands,  within  these  few  years. 

If  we  ask  now,  What  lineaments  of  Fact  still  exist  in  these 
Traditions  ; what  are  the  Historical  events  and  persons  which 
our  priveval  Mythuses  have  here  united  with,  and  so  strangely 
metamorphosed  ? the  answer  is  unsatisfactory  enough.  The 
great  Northern  Immigrations,  unspeakably  momentous  and 
glorious  as  they  were  for  the  Germans,  have  wellnigh  faded 
away  utterly  from  all  vernacular  records.  Some  traces,  never- 
theless, some  names  and  dim  shadows  of  occurrences  in  that 
grand  movement,  still  linger  here  ; which,  in  such  circum- 
stances, we  gather  with  avidity.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  for 
example,  but  this  ‘ Etzel,  king  of  Hunland,’  is  the  Attila,  of 
history  ; several  of  whose  real  achievements  and  relations  are 
faintly  yet  still  recognisably  pictured  forth  in  these  Poems. 
Thus  his  first  queen  is  named  Halke,  and  in  the  Scandina- 
vian versions,  Herka  ; which  last  (Erca)  is  also  the  name  that 
Priscus  gives  her,  in  the  well-known  account  of  his  Embassy 
to  Attila.  Moreover,  it  is  on  his  second  marriage,  which  had 
in  fact  so  mysterious  and  tragical  a character,  that  the  w-hole 
catastrophe  of  the  Nibelungen  turns.  It  is  true,  the  ‘ Scourge 
of  God  ’ plays  but  a tame  part  here  ; however,  his  great  acts, 
though  all  past,  are  still  visible  in  their  fruits : besides,  it  is 
on  the  Northern  or  German  personages  that  the  tradition 
chiefly  dwells. 

Taking  farther  into  account  the  general  ‘ Cycle,’  or  System 
of  Northern  Tradition,  w-hereof  this  Nibelungen  is  the  centre 
and  keystone,  there  is,  as  indeed  we  saw  in  the  Heldenbuch, 
a certain  Kaiser  Ottnit  and  a Dietrich  of  Bern  ; to  wdiom 
also  it  seems  unreasonable  to  deny  historical  existence.  This 
Bern  (Verona),  as  well  as  the  jRabenschlacht  (Battle  of  Ravenna), 
is  continually  figuring  in  these  fictions  ; though  whether 
under  Ottnit  wre  are  to  understand  Odoaeer  the  vanquished, 


116 


TEE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


and  under  Dietrich  of  Bern  Theodoricus  Veronensis,  the  victor 
both  at  Verona  and  Ravenna,  is  by  no  means  so  indubitable. 
Chronological  difficulties  stand  much  in  the  'way.  For  our 
Dietrich  of  'Bern,  as  we  saw  in  the  Nibelungen,  is  represented 
as  one  of  Etzel’s  Champions  : now  Attila-  died  about  the  year 
450  ; and  this  Ostrogoth  Theocloric  did  not  fight  his  great 
Battle  of  Verona  till  489  ; that  of  Ravenna,  which  was  followed 
by  a three  years’  siege,  happening  next  year.  So  that  before 
Dietrich  could  become  Dietrich  of  Bern,  Etzel  had  been  gone 
almost  half  a century  from  the  scene.  Startled  by  this  an- 
achronism, some  commentators  have  fished  out  another  Theo- 
doric,  eighty  years  prior  to  him  of  Verona,  and  who  actually 
served  in  Attila’s  hosts,  with  a retinue  of  Goths  and  Germans  ; 
■with  which  new  Theocloric,  however,  the  old  Ottnit,  orOdoacer, 
of  the  Heldenbuch  must,  in  his  turn,  part  company  ; whereby 
the  case  is  no  whit  mended.  Certain  it  seems,  in  the  mean 
time,  that  Dietrich,  which  signifies  Fdcli  in  People,  is  the  same 
name  which  in  Greek  becomes  Theodoricus  ; for  at  first  (as  in 
Procopius)  this  very  Theodoricus  is  always  written  Qeioepiy, 
which  almost  exactly  corresponds  with  the  German  sound. 
But  such  are  the  inconsistencies  involved  in  both  hypotheses, 
that  we  are  forced  to  conclude  one  of  two  things  : either  that 
the  Singers  of  those  old  Lays  were  little  versed  in  the  niceties 
of  History,  and  unambitious  of  passing  for  authorities  therein  ; 
which  seems  a remarkably  easy  conclusion : or  else,  with  Less- 
ing, that  they  meant  some  quite  other  series  of  persons  and 
transactions,  some  Kaiser  Otto,  and  his  two  Anti-Kaisers  (in 
the  twelfth  century)  ; which,  from  what  has  come  to  light 
since  Lessing’s  day,  seems  now  an  untenable  position. 

However,  as  concerns  the  Nibelungen,  the  most  remark- 
able coincidence,  if  genuine,  remains  yet  to  be  mentioned. 
‘ Thwortz,’  a Hungarian  Chronicler  (or  perhaps  Chronicle),  of 
we  know  not  what  authority,  relates,  1 that  Attila  left  his  king- 
‘ dom  to  his  two  sons  Chaba  and  Aladar,  the  former  by  a 
‘ Grecian  mother,  the  latter  by  Kremheilch  (Chriemhild)  a 
‘ German  ; that  Theodoric,  one  of  his  followers,  sowed  dis- 
‘ sension  between  them  ; and,  along  with  the  Teutonic  hosts, 
‘ took  part  with  his  half-countryman  the  younger  son ; where- 


THE  NIB  EL  UN  GEN  LIED. 


117 


‘ upon  rose  a great  slaughter,  which  lasted  for  fifteen  days, 
‘and  terminated  in  the  defeat  of  Chaba  (the  Greek),  and  his 
‘ flight  into  Asia.’ 1 Could  we  but  put  faith  in  this  Thwortz, 
we  might  fancy  that  some  vague  rumour  of  that  Kremheilch 
tragedy,  swoln  by  the  way,  had  reached  the  German  ear 
and  imagination  ; where,  gathering  round  older  Ideas  and 
Mythuses,  as  Matter  round  its  Spirit,  the  first  rude  form  of 
Chriemhilde’s  Eeoenge  and  the  Wreck  of  the  Nibelungen  bodied 
itself  forth  in  Song. 

Thus  any  historical  light  emitted  by  these  old  Fictions  is 
little  better  than  darkness  visible  ; sufficient  at  most  to  indi- 
cate that  great  Northern  Immigrations,  and  wars  and  rumours 
of  war  have  been  ; but  nowise  how  and  what  they  have  been. 
Scarcely  clearer  is  the  special  history  of  the  Fictions  them- 
selves ; where  they  were  first  put  together,  who  have  been 
their  successive  redactors  and  new-modellers.  Yon  der  Hagen, 
as  we  said,  supposes  that  there  may  have  been  three  several 
series  of  such.  Two,  at  all  events,  are  clearly  indicated.  In 
their  present  shape,  we  have  internal  evidence  that  none  of 
these  poems  can  be  older  than  the  twelfth  century  ; indeed, 
great  part  of  the  Hero-book  can  be  proved  to  be  considerably 
later.  With  this  last  it  is  understood  that  Wolfram  von  Esch- 
enbacli  and  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  two  singers  otherwise 
noted  in  that  era,  were  largely  concerned  ; but  neither  is 
there  any  demonstration  of  this-vague  belief  : while  again,  in 
regard  to  the  Author  of  our  actual  Nibelungen  not  so  much  as 
a plausible  conjecture  can  be  formed. 

Some  vote  for  a certain  Conrad  von  Wurzburg  ; others  for 
the  above-named  Eschenbach  and  Ofterdingen  ; others  again 
for  Illingsohr  of  Ungerland,  a minstrel  who  once  passed  for 
a magician.  Against  all  and  each  of  which  hypotheses  there 
are  objections  ; and  for  none  of  them  the  smallest  conclusive 
evidence.  Who  this  gifted  singer  may  have  been,  only  in  so 
far  as  his  Work  itself  proves  that  there  was  but  One,  and  the 
style  points  to  the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth  century, — remains 
altogether  dark  : the  unwearied  Yon  der  Hagen  himself, 

1 Weber  (Illustrations  of  Northern  Antiquities , p.  39),  who  cites  Gor- 
res  (Zcitung  fur  Einsiedler)  as  his  authority. 


118 


TIIE  NIBEL  TJNGEN  LIED. 


after  fullest  investigation,  gives  for  verdict,  ‘ we  know  it  not.’ 
Considering  the  high  wortli  of  the  Nibelungen,  and  how  many 
feeble  balladmongers  of  that  Swabian  Era  have  transmitted 
us  them  names,  so  total  an  oblivion,  in  this  infinitely  more 
important  case,  may  seem  surprising.  But  those  Mirmelieder 
(Love-  songs)  and  Proven9al  Madrigals  were  the  Court  Poetry 
of  that  time,  and  gained  honour  in  high  places ; while  the 
old  National  Traditions  were  common  property  and  plebeian, 
and  to  sing  them  an  unrewarded  labour. 

Whoever  he  may  be,  let  him  have  our  gratitude,  our  love. 
Looking  back  with  a farewell  glance,  over  that  wondrous  old 
Tale,  with  its  many-coloured  texture  ‘of  joyances  and  high 
tides,  of  weeping  and  of  woe,’  so  skilfully  yet  artlessly  knit 
up  into  a whole,  we  cannot  but  repeat  that  a true  epic  spirit 
lives  in  it ; that  in  many  ways  it  has  meaning  and  charms  for 
us.  Not  only  as  the  oldest  Tradition  of  Modem  Europe,  does 
it  possess  a high  antiquarian  interest ; but  farther,  and  even 
in  the  shape  we  now  see  it  under,  unless  the  ‘ Epics  of  the 
Son  of  Fingal  ’ had  some  sort  of  authenticity,  it  is  our  oldest 
Poem  also  ; the  earliest  product  of  these  New  Ages,  which  on 
its  own  merits,  both  in  form  and  essence,  can  be  named  Poet- 
ical. Considering  its  chivalrous,  romantic  tone,  it  may  rank 
as  a piece  of  literary  composition,  perhaps  considerably 
higher  than  the  Spanish  Cid  ; taking  in  its  historical  signifi- 
cance, and  deep  ramifications  into  the  remote  Time,  it  ranks 
indubitably  and  greatly  higher. 

It  has  been  called  a Northern  Iliad  ; but  except  in  the  fact 
that  both  poems  have  a narrative  character,  and  both  sing 
‘ the  destructive  rage  ’ of  men,  the  two  have  scarcely  any  sim- 
ilarity. The  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen  is  a far  different  per- 
son from  Homer  ; far  inferior  both  in  culture  and  in  genius. 
Nothing  of  the  glowing  imagery,  of  the  fierce  bursting  energy, 
of  the  mingled  fire  and  gloom,  that  dwell  in  the  old  Greek, 
makes  its  appearance  here.  The  German  Singer  is  compar- 
atively a simple  nature  ; has  never  penetrated  deep  into  life  ; 
never  ‘ questioned  Fate  ; ’ or  struggled  with  fearful  mysteries  ; 
of  all  wdiich  we  find  traces  in  Homer,  still  more  in  Shak- 
speare  ; but  with  meek  believing  submission,  has  taken  the 


THE  N1BELUNGEN  LIED. 


119 


Universe  as  lie  found  it  represented  to  liim  ; and  rejoices  with 
a fine  childlike  gladness  in  the  mere  outward  shows  of  things. 
He  has  little  power  of  delineating  character  ; perhaps  he  had 
no  decisive  vision  thereof.  His  persons  are  superficially  dis- 
tinguished, and  not  altogether  without  generic  difference  ; but 
the  portraiture  is  imperfectly  brought  out ; there  lay  no  true 
living  original  within  him.  He  has  little  Fancy  ; we  find 
scarcely  one  or  two  similitudes  in  his  whole  Poem  ; and  these 
one  or  tw7o,  which  moreover  are  repeated,  betoken  no  special 
faculty  that  way.  He  speaks  of  the  * moon  among  stars  ; ’ 
says  often,  of  sparks  struck  from  steel  armour  in  battle,  and 
so  forth,  that  they  were  wie  es  wehte  der  wind,  ‘ as  if  the  wind 
were  blowing  them.’  We  have  mentioned  Tasso  along  with 
him  ; yet  neither  in  this  case  is  there  any  close  resemblance  ; 
the  light  playful  grace,  still  more  the  Italian  pomp  and  sunny 
luxuriance  of  Tasso  are  wanting  in  the  other.  His  are  hum- 
ble wood-notes  wild  ; no  nightingale’s,  but  yet  a sweet  sky- 
hidden  lark's.  In  all  the  rhetorical  gifts,  to  say  nothing 
of  rhetorical  attainments,  we  should  pronounce  him  even 
poor. 

Nevertheless,  a noble  soul  he  must  have  been,  and  fur- 
nished with  far  more  essential  requisites  for  Poetry  than 
these  are  ; namely,  with  the  heart  and  feeling  of  a Poet.  He 
has  a clear  eye  for  the  Beautiful  and  True  ; all  unites  itself 
gracefully  and  compactly  in  his  imagination  : it  is  strange 
with  what  careless  felicity  he  winds  his  way  in  that  complex 
Narrative,  and  be  the  subject  what  it  will,  comes  through  it 
unsullied,  and  with  a smile.  His  great  strength  is  an  uncon- 
scious instinctive  strength  ; wherein  truly  lies  his  highest 
merit.  The  whole  spirit  of  Chivalry,  of  Love,  and  heroic 
Valour,  must  have  lived  in  him,  and  inspired  him.  Every- 
where he  shows  a noble  Sensibility  ; the  sad  accents  of  part- 
ing friends,  the  lamentings  of  women,  the  high  daring  of  men, 
all  that  is  worthy  and  lovely  prolongs  itself  in  melodious 
echoes  through  his  heart.  A true  old  Singer,  and  taught  of 
Nature  herself  ! Neither  let  us  call  him  an  inglorious  Milton, 
since  now  he  is  no  longer  a mute  one.  What  good  were  it 
that  the  four  or  five  Letters  composing  his  Name  could  be 


120 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


printed,  and  pronounced,  with  absolute  certainty?  All  that 
was  mortal  in  him  is  gone  utterly  ; of  his  life,  and  its  envi- 
ronment, as  of  the  bodily  tabernacle  he  dwelt  in,  the  very 
ashes  remain  not : like  a fair  heavenly  Apparition,  which  in- 
deed he  was,  he  has  melted  into  air,  and  only  the  Voice  he 
uttered,  in  virtue  of  its  inspired  gift,  yet  lives  and  will  live. 

To  the  Germans  this  Nibelungen  Song  is  naturally  an  ob- 
ject of  no  common  love  ; neither  if  they  sometimes  overvalue 
it,  and  vague  antiquarian  wonder  is  more  common  than  just 
criticism,  should  the  fault  be  too  heavily  visited.  Alter  long 
ages  of  concealment,  they  have  found  it  in  the  remote  wilder- 
ness, still  standing  like  the  trunk  of  some  almost  antediluvian 
oak  ; nay  with  boughs  on  it  still  green,  after  all  the  wind  and 
weather  of  twelvq  hundred  years.  To  many  a patriotic  feeling, 
which  lingers  fondly  in  solitary  places  of  the  Past,  it  may  well 
be  a rallying-point,  and  ‘ Lovers’  Trysting-tree.’ 

For  us  also  it  has  its  worth.  A creation  from  the  old  ages, 
still  bright  and  balmy,  if  we  visit  it ; and  opening  into  the 
first  History  of  Europe,  of  Mankind.  Thus  all  is  not  oblivion  ; 
but  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss,  that  separates  the  Old  world 
from  the  New,  there  hangs  a fair  Rainbow-land  ; which  also, 
in  curious  repetitions  of  itself  (twice  over,  say  the  critics),  as 
it  were  in  a secondary  and  even  a ternary  reflex,  sheds  some 
feeble  twilight  far  into  the  deeps  of  the  primeval  Time. 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 

Richter’s  Review  of  Madame  de  Stael’s  ‘ Allemagne.’ 

To  review  a Revieweress  of  two  literary  Nations  no  easy  task.  Ma- 
dame de  Stael’s  peculiar  advantages  and  fitness,  in  everything  hut  a com- 
prehension of  her  subject : Her  French  intellect,  and  German  heart. 
Parisian  refinement:  Classical  indifference  to  the  ’household-stuff’  of 
Religion,  and  to  mere  Work-people.  How  she  bleaches  and  clear- 
starches the  Rainbow  ; and  ev.en  makes  a polished  gentleman  of  the 
German  Hercules.  German  dingy  impracticability,  notwithstanding  : 
Mere  Nightingales,  compared  with  Peacocks.  Poor  naked,  unfallen 
Eves  and  Graces  ; How  shall  they  be  presented  at  our  Parisian  Court! 
(p.  123). — -Value,  and  deep  human  interest  of  national  peculiarities. 
We  cannot  wholly  see  ourselves,  except  in  the  e}’e  of  a foreign  seer. 
Use  and  abuse  of  the  literary  file.  German  political  subserviency  ; and 
French  Imperial  sycophancy.  German  conversational  maladroitness  : 
Awkward  tendency  to  try  and  say  something  truly  ; rather  than,  like  the 
polished  Frenchman,  to  say  nothing  elegantly : German  wit,  and  French 
witticisms.  Shallow  estimate  of  Goethe  : Better  insight  into  Schiller  : 
Jean  Paul’s  literary  delinquencies.  Intellectual  ladies,  and  their  easy 
solution  of  metaphysical  insolvabilities.  Madame  de  Stael’s  high  and 
earnest  character  : The  language  of  her  heart  always  a noble,  pure,  and 
rich  one.  (138). 


APPENDIX 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER’S  REVIEW  OF  MADAME 
DE  ST  A EL’S  1 ALLEMAGNE.  ’ 1 

[1830.] 

%*  There  are  few  of  our  readers  but  hare  read  and  partially  admired 
Madame  de  Stael’s  Germany  ; the  work,  indeed,  which,  with  all  its 
vagueness  and  manifold  shortcomings,  must  he  regarded  as  the  pre- 
cursor, if  not  parent,  of  whatever  acquaintance  with  German  Literature 
exists  among  us.  There  are  few  also  but  have  heard  of  Jean  Paul,  here 
and  elsewhere,  as  of  a huge  mass  of  intellect,  with  the  strangest  shape 
and  structure,  yet  with  thews  and  sinews  like  a real  Son  of  Anak. 
Students  of  German  Literature  will  he  curious  to  see  such  a critic  as 
Madame  de  Stael  adequately  criticised,  in  what  fashioif  the  best  of  the 
Germans  write  reviews,  and  what  worth  the  best  of  them  acknowledge 
in  this  their  chief  eulogist  and  indicator  among  foreigners.  We  trans- 
late the  Essay  from  Richter’s  Kleine  Bueherscliau , as  it  stands  there 
reprinted  from  the  Heidelberg  Jalirbucher,  in  which  periodical  it  first 
appeared,  in  1815.  We  have  done  our  endeavour  to  preserve  the  quaint 
grotesque  style  so  characteristic  of  Jean  Paul  ; rendering  with  literal 
fidelity  whatever  stood  before  us,  rugged  and  unmanageable  as  it  often 
seemed.  This  article  on  Madame  de  Stael  passes,  justly  enough,  for 
the  best  of  his  reviews  ; which,  however,  let  our  readers  understand, 
are  no  important  part  of  his  writings.  This  is  not  the  lion  that  we 
see,  but  only  a claw  of  the  lion,  whereby  some  few  may  recognise  him. 

To  review  a Revieweress  of  two  literary  Nations  is  not  easy  ; for  you 
have,  as  it  were,  three  things  at  once  to  give  account  of.  With  regard 
to  France  and  Germany,  however,  it  is  chiefly  in  reference  to  the  judg- 
ment which  the  intellectual  Amazon  of  these  two  countries  has  pro- 
nounced on  them,  and  thereby  on  herself,  that  they  come  before  us  here. 
To  write  such  a Literary  Gazette  of  our  whole  literary  Past,  enacting  edi- 
tor and  so  many  contributors  in  a single  person,  not  to  say  a female  one  ; 
above  all,  summoning  and  spellbinding  the  spirits  of  German  philosophy 
— this,  it  must  be  owned,  would  have  been  even  for  a Villers,  though  Til- 
lers can  now  retranslate  himself  from  German  into  French,  no  unheroic 
undertaking.  Meanwhile,  Madame  de  Stael  had  this  advantage,  that  she 


1 Fraser's  Magazine,  Nos.  1 and  4. 


124 


APPENDIX. 


writes  especially  for  Frenchmen  ; who,  knowing  ahont  German  art  and 
the  German  language  simply  nothing,  still  gain  somewhat,  when  they 
learn  never  so  little.  On  this  subject  you  can  scarcely  tell  them  other 
truths  than  new  ones,  whether  pleasant  or  not.  They  even  know  more 
of  the  English,— as  these  do  of  them, — than  of  the  Germans.  Our  in- 
visibility among  the  French  proceeds,  it  may  be  hoped,  like  that  of 
Mercury,  from  our  proximity  to  the  Sun-god  ; but  in  regard  to  other 
countries,  we  should  consider,  that  the  constellation  of  our  New  Liter- 
ature having  risen  only  half  a century  ago,  the  rays  of  it  are  still  on  the 
road  thither. 

Greatly  in  favour  of  our  Authoress,  in  this  her  picture  of  Germany,  was- 
her residence  among  us  ; and  the  title-page  might  be  translated  1 Letters 
from  Germany’  ( de  V Allemagne ),  as  well  as  on  Germany.  We  Germans 
are  in  the  habit  of  limning  Paris  and  London  from  the  distance  ; which 
capitals  do  sit  to  us,  truly, — but  only  on  the  book-stall  of  their  works. 
For  the  deeper  knowledge  of  a national  poetry,  not  only  the  poems  are 
necessary,  but  the  poets,  at  least  their  country  and  countrymen : the 
living  multitude  are  note  variorum  to  the  poem.  A German  himself 
could  write  his  best  work  on  French  poetry  nowhere  but  in  Paris.  Now 
our  Authoress,  in  her  acquaintance  with  the  greatest  German  poets,  had, 
as  it  were,  a living  translation  of  their  poems;  and  Weimar,  the  focus 
of  German  poesy,  might  be  to  her  what  Paris  were  to  the  German  re- 
viewer of  the  Parisian. 

But  what  chiefly  exalts  her  to  be  our  critic,  and  a poetess  herself,  is 
the  feeling  she  manifests  : with  a taste  sufficiently  French,  her  heart  is 
German  and  poetic.  When  she  says,1 

‘ Toutes  les  fois  que  de  nos  jours  on  a pu  faire  entrer  un  peu  de  seve 
etrangere,  les  Fran9ais  y ont  applaudi  avec  transport.  J.  J.  Rousseau, 
Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre,  Chateaubriand,  &c.  Ac.,  dans  quelques-uns 
de  leurs  ouvrages,  sont  tous,  meme  d leur  ins^u,  de  l’ecole  germanique, 
c’est  a.  dire,  qu’ils  ne  puisent  leur  talent  que  dans  le  fond  de  leur  ame ; ’ 

she  might  have  classed  her  own  works  first  on  the  list.  Everywhere 
she  breathes  the  aether  of  higher  sentiments  than  the  marsh-miasma  of 
Salons  and  French  Materialism  could  support.  The  chapters,  in  Vol- 
ume Sixth,  on  philosophy,  depict  what  is  Germanism  of  head  badly 
enough,  indeed  ; but  the  more  warmly  and  justly  what  is  Germanism 
of  heart,  with  a pure  clearness  not  unworthy  of  a Herder. 

For  the  French,  stript  bare  by  encyclopedists,  and  revolutionists,  and 
conscripts,  and  struggling  under  heart-ossification,  and  contraction  of 
the  breast,  such  German  news  of  a separation  and  independence  be- 
tween Virtue  and  Self-Interest,  Beauty  and  Utility,  &c.  will  not  come 
too  late  : a lively  people,  for  whom  pleasure  or  pain,  as  daylight  or 
cloudy  weather,  often  hide  the  upper  starry  heaven,  can  at  least  use 


1 Tom.  ii.  i>.  G. 


APPENDIX. 


125 


star  catalogues,  and  some  planisphere  thereof.  Many  are  the  jewel- 
gleams  with  which  she  illuminates  the  depths  of  the  soul  against  the 
Gallic  lownesses.  Of  this  sort  are,  for  instance,  the  passages  where  1 
she  refuses  to  have  the  Madonna  of  Beauty  made  a housemaid  of  Utility  ; 
where  she  asks,  Why  Nature  has  clothed,  not  the  nutritive  plants,  but 
only  the  useless  flowers  with  charms  ? 

‘ D’ou  vient,  cependant,  que  pour  parer  l’autel  de  la  Divinite,  on  clier- 
cherait  plutot  les  inutiles  fleurs  que  les  productions  neeessaires  V D’oi 
vient  que  ce  qui  sert  au  maintien  de  votre  vie  aie  moins  de  dignit  - 
que  les  fleurs  sans  hut ? C’est  que  le  beau  nous  rappelle  une  existence 
immortelle  et  divine,  dont  le  souvenir  et  le  regret  vivent  a la  fois  dans 
notre  coeur.’ 

Also  2 the  passages  where,  in  contradiction  to  the  principle  that  places 
the  essence  of  Art  in  imitation  of  Reality,  she  puts  the  question : 

‘ Le  premier  des  arts,  la  musique,  qn’imite-t-il  ? De  tous  les  dons  de 
la  Divinite,  cependant,  c’est  le  plus  magnifique,  car  il  semble,  pour  ainsi 
dire,  superflu.  Lesoleil  nous  eclaire,  nous  respirons  l'air  du  ciel  serein, 
toutes  les  beautes  de  la  nature  servent  en  quelque  facon  a l’homme  ; la 
musique  seule  est  d’une  noble  inutilitt,  et  c’est  pour  cela  qu’elle  nous 
cmeut  si  profondement ; plus  elle  est  loin  de  tout  but,  plus  elle  se  rap- 
proclre  de  cette  source  intime  de  nos  pensces  que  l’application  a un  ob- 
jet  quelconque  r'serre  dans  son  cours. ’ 

So,  likewise,  is  she  the  protecting  goddess  of  the  higher  feelings  in 
love ; and  the  whole  Sixth  Volume  is  an  altar  of  religion,  which  the 
Gallic  pantheon  will  not  be  the  worse  for.  Though  professing  herself 
a proselyte  of  the  new  poetic  school,  she  is  a mild  judge  of  sentimen- 
tality ; 3 and  in  no  case  can  immoral  freedom  in  the  thing  represented 
excuse  itself  in  her  eyes,  as  perhaps  it  might  in  those  of  this  same  new 
school,  by  the  art  displayed  in  representing  it.  Hence  comes  her  too 
narrow  ill-will  against  Goethe’s  Faust  and  Ottilie.  Thus,  also,  she  ex- 
tends her  just  anger  against  a faithlessly  luxuriating  love,  in  Goethe's 
Stella , to  unjust  anger  against  Jacobi’s  Woldemar ; mistaking  in  this 
latter  the  hero’s  struggle  after  a free  disencumbered  friendship,  for  the 
heart-luxury  of  weakness.  Yet  the  accompanying  passage 4 is  a fine 
and  true  one : 

‘ On  ne  doit  pas  se  mettre  par  son  choix  dans  une  situation  ou  la  mo- 
rale et  la  sensibilite  ne  sont  pas  d’aceord  ; car  ce  qui  est  involontaire  est 
si  beau,  qu’il  est  affreux  d’etre  condamne  a se  commander  toutes  ses 
actions,  et  a vivre  avec  soi-meme  comme  avec  sa  victime.’ 

She  dwells  so  much  in  the  heart,  as  the  bee  in  the  flower-cup,  that, 
like  this  honey-maker,  she  sometimes  lets  the  tulip-leaves  overshadow 


1 Tom.  v.  p.  100. 

2 Ibid.  p.  101. 


3  Ibid.  v.  ch.  18. 
* Ibid.  p.  180. 


126 


APPENDIX. 


'lier  and  shut  her  in.  Thus  she  not  only  declares  against  the  learning 
(that  is,  the  harmonics  and  inharmonics)  in  our  German  music,  hut 
also  against  our  German  parallelism  between  tone  and  word, — our  Ger- 
man individuation  of  tones  and  words.  Instrumental  music  of  itself  is 
too  much  for  her  ; mere  reflection,  letter  and  science  : she  wants  only 
voices,  not  words.1  But  the  sort  of  souls  which  take-in  the  pure  im- 
pression of  tones  without  knowledge  of  speech,  dwell  in  the  inferior 
animals.  Do  we  not  always  furnish  the  tones  we  hear  with  secret  texts 
of  our  own,  nay  with  secret  scenery,  that  their  echo  within  us  may  he 
stronger  than  their  voice  without  ? And  can  our  heart  feel  by  other 
means  than  being  spoken  to  and  answering  ? Thus  pictures,  during 
music,  are  seen  into  more  deeply  and  warmly  by  spectators ; nay  many 
masters  have,  in  creating  them,  acknowledged  help  from  music.  All 
beauties  serve  each  other  without  jealousy  ; for  to  conquer  man’s  heart 
is  the  common  purpose  of  all. 

As  it  was  for  France  that  our  Authoress  wrote  and  shaped  her  Ger- 
many, one  does  not  at  first  see  how,  with  her  depth  of  feeling,  she 
could  expect  to  prosper  much  there.  But  Keviewer  - answereth  : The 
female  half  she  will  please  at  once  and  immediately  ; the  male,  again, 
by  the  twofold  mediation  of  art  and  mockery.  First,  by  art.  Indif- 
ferent as  the  Parisian  is  to  religion  and  deep  feeling  on  the  firm  ground 
of  the  household  floor,  he  likes  mightily  to  see  them  bedded  on  the 
soft  fluctuating  clouds  of  art ; as  court-people  like  peasants  on  the  stage, 
Dutch  dairies  in  pictures,  and  Swiss  scenes  on  the  plate  at  dinner ; nay 
they  want  gods  more  than  they  do  God,  whom,  indeed,  it  is  art  that  first 
raises  to  the  rank  of  the  gods.  High  sentiments  and  deep  emotions, 
which  the  court  at  supper  must  scruple  to  express  as  real,  can  speak  out 
loud  and  frankly  on  the  court-theatre  a little  while  before.  Besides, 
what  is  not  to  be  slighted,  by  a moderated  indifference  and  aversion  to 
true  feelings,  there  is  opened  the  freer  room  and  variety  for  the  repre- 
sentation and  show  thereof  ; as  we  may  say,  the  Emperor  Constantine 
first  abolished  the  punishment  of  the  cross,  but  on  all  hands  loaded 
churches  and  statues  with  the  figure  of  it. 

Here  too  is  another  advantage,  which  whoever  likes  can  reckon  in  : 
That  certain  higher  -and  purer  emotions  do  service  to  the  true  earthly 

1 Tom.  17.  pp.  123-125. 

2 The  imperial  ‘ we  ’ is  unknown  in  German  reviewing : the  1 Recement 1 must  there 
speak  in  his  own  poor  third  person  singular;  nay  stingy  printers  are  in  the  habit  of  cur- 
tailing him  into  mere  4 Rez.,'  and  without  any  article:  '"Res.  thinks,’  ‘ Rez.  says,’  as  if 
the  unhappy  man  were  uttering  affidavits,  in  a tremulous  half-guilty  attitude,  not  criti- 
cisms ex  cathedra , and  oftentimes"  inflatis  buccis  ! The  German  reviewer,  too,  is  expected, 
in  many  cases,  to  understand  something  of  his  subject : and,  at  all  events,  to  have  read 
his  book.  Happy  England  ! Were  there  a bridge  built  hither,  not  only  all  the  women 
in  the  world,  as  a wit  has  said,  but  faster  than  they,  all  the  reviewers  in  the  world,  would 
hasten  over  to  us,  to  exchange  their  toilsome  mud-shovels  for  light  kingly  sceptres:  and 
English  Literature  were  'one  boundless,  self-devouring  Review,  and  (as  in  London  routs) 
you  had  to  do  nothing,  but  only  to  see  others  do  nothing. — T. 


APPENDIX. 


127 


ones  in  the  way  of  foil  ; as  haply,— if  a similitude  much  fitter  for  a 
satire  than  for  a review  may  be  permitted, — the  thick  ham  by  its  tender 
flowers,  or  the  boar’s-head  by  the  citrons  in  its  snout,  rather  gains  than 
loses. 

And  though  all  this  went  for  nothing,  still  must  the  religious  enthu- 
siasm of  our  Authoress  affect  the  Parisian  and  man  of  the  world  with  a 
second  charm ; namely,  with  the  genuine  material  which  lies  therein, 
as  well  as  in  any  tragedy,  for  conversational  parody.  Indeed,  those 
same  religious,  oldfashioned,  sentimental  dispositions  must,  as  the  per- 
sificuje  thereof  has  already  grown  somewhat  threadbare  and  meritless,— 
they  must,  if  jesting  on  them  is  to  betoken  spirit,  be  from  time  to  time 
warmed  up  anew  by  some  writer,  or,  still  better,  by  some  writeress,  of 
genius. 

AVith  the  charm  of  sensibility  our  gifted  eulogist  combines,  as  hinted 
above,  another  advantage  which  may  well  gain  the  Parisians  for  her ; 
namely,  the  advantage  of  a true  French,  — not  German,  — taste  in 
poetry. 

She  must,  the  Reviewer  hopes,  have  satisfied  the  impartial  Parisian 
by  this  general  sentence,  were  there  nothing  more. 1 

‘ Le  grand  avantage  qu’on  peut  tirer  de  l’etude  de  la  litterature  alle- 
mande,  c’est  le  mouvement  d’emulation  qu’elle  donne  ; il  faut  y clier- 
cher  des  forces  pour  composer  soi-meme  plutot  que  des  ouvrages  tout 
fait,  qu’on  puisse  transporter  ailleurs. 

This  thought,  which  2 she  has  more  briefly  expressed  : 

‘ Ce  sera  presque  toujours  un  chef-d’oeuvre  qu’une  invention  etrangere 
arrangee  par  un  Francais,’ — 

she  demonstrates 3 by  the  words  : 

‘ On  ne  sait  pas  faire  un  livre  en  Allemagne  ; rarement  on  y met  l’ordre 
et  la  methode  qui  classent  les  idees  dans  la  tete  du  lecteur  ; et  ce  n’est 
point  parceque  les  Francais  sont  impatiens,  mais  parcequ’ils  out  l’esprit 
juste,  qu’ils  se  fatiguent  de  ce  defaut : les  fictions  ne  sont  pas  dessinees 
dans  les  poesies  allemandes  avec  ces  contours  fermes  et  precis  qui  en 
assurent  l’effet  ; et  le  vague  de  l’imagination  correspond  a l’obscurite  de 
la  pensee.’ 

In  short,  our  Muses’-hill,  as  also  the  other  Muses’ -hills,  the  English, 
the  Greek,  the  Roman,  the  Spanish,  are  simply, — what  no  Frenchman 
can  question, — so  many  mountain-stairs  and  terraces,  fashioned  on  vari- 
ous slopes,  whereby  the  Gallic  Olympus-Parnassus  may,  from  this  side 
and  that,  be  conveniently  reached.  As  to  us  Germans  in  particular, 
she  might  express  herself  so  : German  works  of  art  can  be  employed  as 
colour-sheds,  and  German  poets  as  colour-grinders,  by  the  French  pic- 
1 Tom.  iv.  p.  8ti.  2 Page  45.  3 Page  11. 


128 


APPENDIX. 


torial  school  ; as,  indeed,  from  of  old  our  learned  lights  have  heen  hy 
the  French,  not  adored  like  light-stars,  hut  stuck  into  like  light-chaf- 
ers, as  people  carry  those  of  Surinam,  spitted  through,  for  lighting  of 
roads.  Frankly  will  the  Frenchman  forgive  our  Authoress  her  German 
or  British  heart,  when  he  finds,  in  the  chapters  on  the  ‘ classical  ’ and 
‘ romantic  ’ art  of  poetry,  how  little  this  has  corrupted  or  cooled  her 
taste,  to  the  prejudice  of  the  Gallic  art  of  writing.  After  simply  say- 
ing,' 

‘ La  nation  francaise,  la  plus  cultivee  des  nations  latines,  penche  vers 
la  poisie  imitee  des  Grecs  et  des  Romains,’ 

she  expresses  this  2 much  better  and  more  distictly  in  these  words  : 

‘ La  poesie  francaise  etant  la  plus  classique  de  toutes  les  poesies  mo- 
dernes,  elle  est  la  seule  qui  ne  soit  pas  repandue  parmi  le  peuple.’ 

Now  Tasso,  Calderon,  Camoens,  Shakspeare,  Goethe,  continues  she, 
are  sung  hy  their  respective  peoples,  even  hy  the  lowest  classes  ; where- 
as it  is  to  be  lamented  that,  indeed, 

‘Nos  poetes  fran5ais  sont  admires  par  tout  ce  qu’il  y a d’esprits  cul- 
tives  cliez  nous  et  dans  le  restk  de  l’Europe  ; mais  ils  sont  tout-a-fait 
inconnus  aux  gens  de  peuple,  et  aux  bourgeois  meme  des  villes,  parce- 
que  les  arts  en  France  ne  sont  pas,  comme  ailleurs,  uatifs  du  pays  meme 
or  leurs  beautes  se  developpent. 

And  there  is  no  Frenchman  but  will  readily  subscribe  this  confession. 
The  Reviewer  too,  tliougli.  a German,  allows  the  French  a similarity  to 
the  Greek  and  Latin  classics  ; nay  a greater  than  any  existing  people  can 
exhibit ; and  recognises  them  willingly  as  the  newest  Ancients.  He 
even  goes  so  far,  that  he  equals  their  Li'erature,  using  a quite  peculiar 
and  inverse  principle  of  precedency  among  the  classical  ages,  to  the 
best  age  of  Greek  and  Latin  Literature,  namely,  to  the  iron.  For  as  the 
figurative  names,  ‘golden,’  ‘iron  age,’  of  themselves  signify,  consider- 
ing that  gold,  a very  ductile  rather  than  a useful  metal,  is  found  every- 
where, and  on  the  surface,  even  in  rivers  and  without  labour ; where- 
as the  firm  iron,  serviceable  not  as  a sj'mhol  and  for  its  splendour,  is 
rare  in  gold  countries,  and  gained  only  in  depths  and  with  toil,  and 
seldom  ill  a metallic  state : so  likewise,  among  literary  ages,  an  iron 
one  designates  the  practical  utility  and  laborious  nature  of  the  work 
done,  as  well  as  the  cunning  workmanship  bestowed  on  it;  whereby  it 
is  clear,  that  not  till  the  golden  and  silver  ages  are  done,  can  the  iron 
one  come  to  maturity.  Always  one  age  produces  and  fashions  the  next : 


1 Tom.  ii.  p.  60. 


2 Page  63, 


APPENDIX. 


129 


on  the  golden  stands  the  silver  ; this  forms  the  brass ; and  on  the 
shoulders  of  all  stands  the  iron.  Thus  too,  our  Authoress  1 testifies 
that  the  elder  French,  Montaigne  and  the  rest,  were  so  very  like  the 
present  Germans,2  while  the  younger  had  not  yet  grown  actually  clas- 
sical ; as  it  were,  the  end-flourishes  and  cadences  of  the  past.  On 
which  grounds  the  French  classics  cannot,  without  injustice,  be  paral- 
leled to  any  earlier  Greek  classics  than  to  those  of  the  Alexandrian 
school.  Among  the  Latin  classics  their  best  prototypes  may  be  such  as 
Ovid,  Pliny  the  younger,  Martial,  the  two  Senecas,  Lucan, — though  he, 
more  by  date  than  spirit,  has  been  reckoned  under  our  earlier  periods ; 
inasmuch  as  these  Romans  do,  as  it  were  by  anticipation,  arm  and 
adorn  themselves  with  the  brass  and  iron,  not  yet  come  into  universal 
use.  A Rousseau  would  sound  in  Latin  as  silvery  as  a Seneca  ; Seneca 
would  sound  in  French  as  golden  as  a Rousseau. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  an  almost  universal  error  in  persons  who  speak  of 
Fiench  critics,  to  imagine  that  a Geoffroy,  or  a Laharpe,  in  equalling 
his  countrymen  to  the  ancient  classics,  means  the  classics  of  the  so-called 
golden  age.  But  what  real  French  classic  would  take  it  as  praise  if  you 
told  him  that  he  wrote  quite  like  Homer,  like  AEschylus,  like  Aristoph- 
anes, like  Plato,  like  Cicero  ? Without  vanity,  he  might  give  you  to 
understand,  that  some  small  difference  would  surely  be  found  between 
those  same  golden  classics  and  him,  which,  indeed,  was  to  be  referred 
lather  to  the  higher  culture  of  the  time  than  to  his  own  ; whereby  he 
might  hope  that  in  regard  to  various  longueurs,  instances  of  tastelessness, 
coarseness,  he  had  less  to  answer  for  than  many  an  Ancient.  A French 
tragedy-writer  might  say,  for  example,  that  he  flattered  himself,  if  he 
could  not  altogether  equal  the  so-named  tragic  Seven  Stars  of  Alexan- 
dria, he  still  differed  a little  from  the  Seven  of  AEschylus.  Indeed,  Vol- 
taire and  others,  in  their  letters,  tell  us  plainly  enough,  that  the  writers 
of  the  ancient  golden  age  are  nowise  like  them,  or  specially  to  their 
mind. 

The  genuine  French  taste  of  our  Authoress  displays  itself  also  in  de- 
tached manifestations  ; for  example,  in  the  armed  neutrality  which  in 
common  with  the  French  and  people  of  the  world,  she  maintains  to- 
wards the  middle  ranks.  Peasants  and  Swiss,  indeed,  make  their  ap- 
pearance, idyl-wise,  in  French  Literature  ; and  a shepherd  is  as  good  as 
a shepherdess.  Artists  too  are  admitted  by  these  people  ; partly  as  the 
sort  of  undefined  comets  that  gyrate  equally  through  suns,  earths  and 
satellites  ; partly  as  the  individual  servants  of  their  luxury ; and  an 
actress  in  person  is  often  as  dear  to  them  as  the  part  she  plays.  But  as 
to  the  middle  rank,— excepting  perhaps  the  clergyman,  who  in  the  pul- 
pit belongs  to  the  artist  guild,  and  in  Catholic  countries,  without  rank 

1 Tom.  iv.  p.  80. 

2 The  same  thing  Jean  Paul  had  long  ago  remarked  in  his  Vorschule,  book  iii.  see. 
379,  of  the  Second  Edition. 

9 


130 


APPENDIX. 


of  liis  own,  traverses  all  ranks, — not  only  are  handicraftsmen  incapable 
of  poetic  garniture,  but  the  entire  class  of  men  of  business,  your  Com- 
merc e-Baths,  Legation,  Justice,  and  other  Baths , and  two-thirds  of  the 
whole  Address-calendar.  In  short,  French  human  nature  produces  and 
sets  forth,  in  its  works  of  art,  nothing  worse  than  princes,  heroes  and 
nobility  : no  ground-work  and  side-work  of  people  ; as  the  trees  about 
Naples  shade  you,  when  sitting  under  them,  simply  with  blossoms,  not 
with  leaves,  because  they  have  none.  This  air  of  pedigree,  without 
which  the  French  Parnassus  receiveth  no  one,  Madame  de  Stael  also  ap- 
pears to  require,  and,  by  her  unfavourable  sentence,  to  feel  the  want  of 
in  Yoss’s  Luise,  in  his  Idyls,  in  Goethe  s Dorothea,  in  Meister  and  Faust. 
There  is  too  little  gentility  in  them.  Tieck’s  Sternbald  finds  favour, 
perhaps  not  less  for  its  treating  of  artists,  than  by  reason  of  its  nnpoeti- 
cal  yet  pleasing  generalities  ; for  the  book  is  rather  a tcish  of  art,  than  a 
work  of  art. 

The  theatre  is,  as  it  were,  the  ichnography  (ground-plan)  of  a people  ; 
the  prompter’s  hole  {souffieur)  is  the  speaking-trumpet  of  its  peculiari- 
ties. Our  Authoress,  in  exalting  the  Gallic  coulisses,  and  stage-curtains, 
and  candle-snuffers,  and  souffleurs  of  tlieir  tragic  and  comic  ware,  above 
all  foreign  theatres,  gives  the  French  another  and  gratifying  proof  of 
her  taste  being  similar  to  theirs. 

After  so  many  preliminaries,  the  reader  will  doubtless  expect  the  con- 
clusion that  our  Authoress  does  prove  the  wished-for  mediatrix  between 
us  and  France,  and  in  the  end  procures  us  a literary  general  pardon 
from  the  latter  ; nay,  that  the  French  are  even  a little  obliged  to  her 
for  this  approximation.  But  quite  the  contrary  is  the  Reviewer’s  opin- 
ion. 

On  the  whole,  he  cannot  help  sympathising  with  the  French,  whom 
such  diluted,  filtered  extracts  and  versions  from  the  German  must  de- 
lude into  belief  of  a certain  regularity  in  us,  whereof  there  is  no  trace 
extant.  Thus,  for  example,  our  Authoress  begins  Faust  with  this  pas- 
sage : 


‘ C’est  a nous  de  nous  plonger  dans  le  tumulte  de  l’activite,  dans  ees 
vagues  eternelles  de  la  vie,  que  la  naissanee  et  la  mort  elevent  et  precipi- 
tent,  repoussent  et  ramenent : nous  sommes  faits  pour  travailler  a l’oeuvre 
que  Dieu  nous  recommande,  et  dont  le  terns  accomplit.  la  frame.  Mais 
toi,  qui  ne  peux  concevoir  que  toi-m'me,  toi,  qui  trembles  on  approfon- 
dissant  ta  destinee,  et  que  mon  souffle  fait  tressaillir,  laisse-moi,  ne  mo 
rappelle  plus.’ 


How  shall  a Frenchman,  persuaded  perhaps  by  such  smooth  samples 
to  study  German,  guess,-  that  before  this  passage  could  become  arable, 
the  following  tangle  grew  on  it : 


APPENDIX. 


131 


‘ DER  GEIST. 

In  Lebensfluthen,  in  Thatensturm 
Wall’  ich  auf  und  ab, 

Welie  hin  und  her  ! 

Geburt  und  Grab 
Ein  ewiges  Meer, 

Ein  wechsclnd  Weben,  . 

Ein  gluhend  Leben, 

So  schaff’  ich  am  sausenden  Webstuhl  der  Zeit, 
Und  wirke  der  Gottlieit  lebendiges  Kleid. 

FAUST. 

Der  du  die  weite  Welt  umschweifst, 
Geschiiftiger  Geist,  wie  nah’  f uhl’ich  mich  dir. 

DER  GEIST. 

Du  gleichst  dem  Geist,  den  du  begreifst, 

Niclit  mir  ! ’ 1 


So,  indeed,  is  the  whole  Faust  of  Madame  de  Stael ; all  fire- colour 
bleached  out  of  it  ; giant  masses  and  groups,  for  example  the  IV’aZ- 
purgisnacht  (Mayday  Night),  altogether  cut  away. 

The  followiug  passage  ( SiebenJcas ,-  book  i.  sec.  7)  occurs  in  ‘ the  Speech 
of  the  dead  Christ  from  the  Universe  ’ (Songe,  she  more  briefly  translates 
the  title  of  it),  where  Christ,  after  saying  that  there  is  no  God,  thus  con- 
tinues : 

1 Here  is  an  English  version,  as  literal  as  we  can  make  it : 

‘ THE  SPIRIT. 

In  Existence'  floods,  in  Action's  storm, 

I walk  and  work,  above,  beneath, 

Work  and  weave,  in  endless  motion  1 
Birth  and  death, 

An  infinite  ocean, 

A seizing  and  giving 
The  fire  of  living  : 

'Tis  thus  at  the  roaring  Loom  of  Time  I ply, 

And  weave  for  God  the  Garment  thou  seest  him  by. 

FAUST. 

Thou  who  the  wide  world  round  outflowest, 

Unresting  Spirit,  how  I resemble  thee  1 

THE  SPIRIT. 

Thou  canst  resemble  spirits  whom  thou  knoweflt, 

Not  me  ! T. 


2 By  Jean  Paul  himself. — T. 


132 


APPENDIX. 


1 1 travelled  through  the  worlds,  I mounted  into  the  suns,  and  flew 
with  the  galaxies  through  wastes  of  heaven  ; hut  there  is  no  God.  I 
descended  as  'far  as  being  casts  its  shadow,  and  looked  into  the  Ab}Tss 
and  cried  : Father,  where  art  thou  ? but  I heard  only  the  eternal  storm, 
which  no  one  guides ; and  the  gleaming  Rainbow  from  the  west,  without 
a Sun  that  made  it,  stood  over  the  Abyss,  and  trickled  down.  And 
when  I looked  up  towards  the  immeasurable  world  for  the  Divine  eye, 
it  glared  down  on  me  with  an  empty,  black,  bottomless  eye-socket ; and 
Eternity  lay  upon  Chaos,  eating  it,  and  re-eating  it.  Cry  on,  ye  dis- 
cords ! cry  away  the  shadows,  for  He  is  not ! ’ 


These  barbaresque  sentences  have,  like  all  the  rest,  grown  into  the 
following  cultivated  ones  : 


‘ J'ai  parcouru  les  mondes,  je  me  suis  eleve  au-dessus  de  soleils,  et  la 
aussi  il  n’est  point  de  Dieu  ; je  suis  descendu  jusqu  aux  dernieres  limites 
de  1 univers,  j’ai  regard,  dans  l’ablme,  et  je  me  suis  eerie:  lire,  oil 
es-tu  ? mais  je  n’ai  entendu  que  la  pluie  qui  tombait  gontte  a goutte 
dans  I’ab'me,  et  l’eternelle  temp&te,  que  nul  ordre  ne  r :git,  m’a  seule 
repoudu.  Relevant  ensuite  mes  regards  vers  la  voute  des  cieax,  je  n’y 
ai  trouve  qu’une  orbite  vide,  noire,  et  sans  fond.  LVternite  reposait 
sur  le  chaos,  et  le  rongeait,  et  se  devorait  lentement  elle-meme  : redou- 
blez  vos  plaintes  ameres  et  dechirantes  ; que  des  cris  aigus  dispersent  les 
ombres,  car  e’en  est  fait.’ 


He  that  loves  the  French  must  lament  that  people  should  decoy  them 
over  to  us  with  beauties  which  are  merely  painted  on  with  rouge  ; and 
should  hide  not  only  our  fungous  excrescences,  but  our  whole  adiposity 
in  wide  Gallic  court  clothes.  For,  as  Goethe’s  Faust  actually  stands, 
every  good  Frenchman,  outdoing  our  Authoress,  who  wishes  no  second, 
must  wish  the  first — at  Mephistopbeles  ; and  look  upon  this  written 
hell-journey  as  an  acted  Empedocles  one  into  the  crater  of  the  German 
Muse-volcano.  To  our  Authoress  he  might  even  say:  “ Madame,  you 
had  too  much  sense  to  lend  your  Germans  any  of  those  traits,  pointes, 
sentences,  that  esprit , wherewith  our  writers  have  so  long  enchanted  us 
and  Europe.  You  showed  us,  in  the  German  works,  their  brightest 
side,  their  sensibilite , the  depth  of  their  feelings.  Tou  have  quite  allured 
us  with  it.  All  that  offended  your  taste,  you  have  softened  or  sup- 
pressed, and  given  us  yourself  instead  of  the  poem : tant  rnieux!  But 
who  will  give  us  you,  when  we  read  these  German  works  in  the  origi- 
nal ? Jean  Jacques  says,  Let  science  come,  and  not  the  deceiving  doc- 
tor. We  invert  it,  and  say,  Let  the  healing  doctoress  come,  and  not  the 
sick  poem,  till  she  have  healed  it.” 

The  Reviewer  observes  here,  that  in  the  foregoing  apostrophe  there 
is  as  cramp  a eulogy  as  that 1 with  which  Madame  de  Stael  concludes 
hers  on  Schiller : 


Tom.  iii.  p.  97. 


APPENDIX. 


133 


‘ Pen  de  terns  apres  la  premiere  representation  de  Guillaume  Tell,  le 
trait  mortel  atteignit  aussi  le  digne  auteur  de  ce  bel  ouvrage.  Gesler 
perit  au  moment  ou  les  desseins  les  plus  cruels  l’occupaient : Schiller 
n’avait  dans  son  ame  que  de  genereuses  pensees.  Ces  deux  volontes  si 
contraires,  la  mort,  ennemie  de  tous  les  projets  de  l’homme,  les  a de 
merne  brisees.’ 

This  comparison  of  the  shot  Gesler  with  the  deceased  Schiller,  wherein 
the  similarity  of  the  two  men  turns  on  their  resembling  other  men  in 
dying,  and  thereby  having  their  plans  interrupted,  seems  a delicate 
imitation  of  Captain  Fluellen,  who  (in  Henry  V.)  struggles  to  prove  that 
Alexander  of  Macedon  and  Henry  Monmouth  are  in  more  than  one  point 
like  each  other. 

But  to  return.  Were  this  castrated  edition  of  the  German  Hercules, 
or  Poetic  God,  which  Madame  de  Stael  has  edited  of  us,  desirable,  and 
of  real  use  for  any  reader,  it  would  be  for  German  courts,  and  courtiers 
themselves : who  knows  but  such  a thing  might  prove  the  light  little 
flame  1 to  indicate  the  heavy  treasure  of  their  native  country  ; which 
treasure,  as  they,  unlike  the  French,  have  all  learned  German  first,  they 
could  find  no  difficulty  in  digging  out.  But  with  such  shows  of  possible 
union  between  two  altogether  different  churches,  or  temples  of  taste, 
never  let  the  good,  too-credulous  French  be  lured  and  balked  ! 

Nay,  the  cunning  among  them  may  hit  our  Authoress  with  her  own 
hand  ; for  she  has  written  : 2 

‘ Les  auteurs  francais  de  l’ancien  terns  ont  en  general  plus  de  rapports 
avec  les  Allemands  que  les  ecrivains  du  siecle  de  Louis  XIV.  ; car  c’est 
depuis  ce  tems-la  que  la  litterature  fran§aise  a pris  une  direction  clas- 
sique.’ 

And  shall  w now,  he  may  say,  again  grow  to  similarity  in  culture 
with  those  whom  we  resembled  when  we  had  a less  degree  of  it  ? A 
German  may,  indeed,  prefer  the  elder  French  poetry  to  the  newer 
French  verse  ; but  uo  Frenchman  can  leave  his  holy  temple  for  an  anti- 
quated tabernacle  of  testimony,  much  less  for  a mere  modern  synagogue. 
The  clear  water  of  their  poetry  will  ever  exclude,  as  buoyant  and  un- 
mixable,  the  dark  fire-holding  oil  of  ours.  Or  to  take  it  otherwise  : as 
with  them  the  eye  is  everywhere  the  ruling  organ,  and  with  us  the  ear  ; 
so  they,  hard  f hearing,  will  retain  their  poet-peacock,  with  his  glith  r- 
ing  tail- mirrors  3 and  tail-eyes,  drawn  back  fan -like  to  the  wings,  his 
poor  tones  and  f et  notwithstanding  ; and  we,  short  of  sight,  will  think 

1 The  ‘ little  blue  flame,’  the  ‘ Springwurzel  ’ (start-root),  &zc.  &c.,  are  well-known  phe- 
nomena in  miners’  magic. — T. 

a Tom.  iv.  p.  80. 

3 In  French  poetry,  you  must  always,  like  the  Christian,  consider  the  latter  end  or  the 
last  verse  : and  there,  as  in  life,  according  to  the  maxim  of  the  Greek  sage,  you  cannot 
before  the  end  be  called  happy. 


134 


APPENDIX. 


our  unshowy  poet-larks  and  nightingales,  with  their  songs  in  the  clouds 
and  the  blossoms,  the  preferable  blessing.  Perhaps  in  the  whole  of 
Goethe  there  are  not  to  be  found  so  many  antitheses  and  witty  reflexes 
as  in  one  moving  act  of  Voltaire  ; and  in  all,  even  the  finest  cantos  of 
the  Messias , the  Frenchman  seeks  in  vain  for  such  pointes  as  in  the 
Henriade  exalt  every  canto,  every  page,  into  a perfect  holly -bush. 

And  now,  the  Reviewer  begs  to  know  of  any  impartial  man,  What 
joy  shall  a Frenchman  have  in  literatures  and  arts  of  poetry  which  ad- 
vance on  him  as  naked  as  unfallen  Eves  or  Graces, — he,  who  is  just 
come  from  a poet -assemblee,  where  every  one  has  his  communion-coat, 
his  mourning-coat,  pay,  his  winding-sheet,  trimmed  with  tassels  and 
tags,  and  properly  perfumed  ? What  will  a Fabre  d’Olivet 1 say  to  such 
eulogising  of  a foreign  literature  ? he  who  has  so  pointedly  and  dis- 
tinctly declared : 

‘ Oui,  messieurs,  ee  que  l’lndostan  fut  pour  l’Asie,  la  France  le  doit 
etre  pour  l’Europe.  La  langue  francaise,  comme  la  Sanscrite,  doit  tendre 
a l’universalite,  elle  doit  s’enrichir  de  toutes  les  connaissances  acquises 
dans  les  siecles  passes,  afin  de  les  transmettre  aux  siecles  f uturs  ; destinee 
a surnoyer  sur  les  debris  de  cent  idiomes  diverses,  elle  doit  pouvoir 
sauver  du  naufrage  des  temps  toutes  leurs  beautes,  et  toutes  leurs  pro- 
ductions remarquables.’ 

When  even  a De  Stael,  with  all  her  knowledge  of  our  language  and 
authors,  and  with  a heart  inclined  to  us,  continues  nevertheless  Gallic 
in  tongue  and  taste,  what  blossom  crop  are  we  to  look  for  from  the  dry 
timber  ? For,  on  the  whole,  the  taste  of  a people  is  altogether  to  be 
discriminated  from  the  taste  of  a period  : the  latter,  not  the  former, 
easily  changes.  The  taste  of  a people,  rooted  down,  through  centuries, 
iu  the  nature  of  the  country,  in  its  history,  in  the  whole  soul  of  the 
body  politic,  withstands,  though  under  new  forms  of  resistance,  all 
alterations  and  attacks  from  without.  For  this  taste  is,  in  its  highest 
sense,  nothing  other  than  the  outcome  and  utterance  of  the  inward  com- 
bination of  the  man,  revealing  itself  most  readily  by  act  and  judgment 
in  art,  as  in  that  which  speaks  with  all  the  faculties  of  man,  and  to  all 
the  faculties  of  man.  Thus  poetical  taste  belongs  to  the  ligart:  the  un- 
derstanding possesses  only  the  small  domain  of  rhetorical  taste,  which 
can  be  learned  and  proved,  and  gives  its  verdict  on  correctness,  language, 
congruity  of  images,  and  the  like. 

For  the  rest,  if  a foreign  literature  is  really  to  be  made  a saline  man- 
ure. and  fertilising  compost  for  the  withered  French  literature,  some 
altogether  different  path  must  be  fallen  upon  than  this  ridiculous  cir- 
cuit of  clipping  the  Germans  into  Frenchmen,  that  these  may  take  pat- 
tern by  them  ; of  first  fashioning  us  down  to  the  French,  that  they  may 

1 His  Zes  Ver*  Dnres  du  Fythagore  expliques,  dec.,  precedes  d'un  Discours  sur  r Es- 
sence de  Fuesie , lSlt. 


APPENDIX. 


135 


fashion  themselves  up  to  us.  Place,  and  plant  down,  and  encamp,  the 
Germans  with  all  their  stout  limbs  and  full  arteries,  like  dying  gladia- 
tors, fairly  before  them  ; — let  them  then  study  these  figures  as  an  acad- 
emy, or  refuse  to  do  it.  Even  to  the  Gallic  speech,  in  this  transference, 
let  utmost  boldness  be  recommended.  How  else,  if  not  in  a similar  way, 
have  we  Germans  worked  our  former  national  taste  into  a free  taste  ; so 
that  by  our  skill  in  languages,  or  our  translations,  we  have  welcomed  a 
Homer,  Shakspeare,  Dante,  Calderon,  Tasso,  with  all  their  peculiarities, 
repugnant  enough  to  ours,  and  introduced  them  undisarmed  into  the 
midst  of  us  ? Our  national  taste  meanwhile  was  not  lost  in  this  process : 
in  the  German,  with  all  its  pliability,  there  is  still  something  indecli- 
nable for  other  nations ; Goethe,  and  Herder,  and  Klopstock,  and  Les- 
sing, can  be  enjoyed  to  perfection  in  no  tongue  but  the  German ; and 
not  only  our  aesthetic  cosmopolitism  (universal  friendship),  but  also  our 
popular  individuality,  distinguishes  us  from  all  other  peoples. 

If,  one  day,  we  are  to  be  presented  to  foreign  countries, — and  every 
German,  proud  as  he  may  be,  will  desire  it,  if  he  is  a bookseller, — the 
Reviewer  could  wish  much  for  an  Author  like  our  Authoress,  to  trans- 
port us,  in  such  a Cleopatra’s  ship  as  her’s,  into  England.  Schiller, 
Goethe,  Klinger,  Hippel,  Liclitenberg,  Haller,  Kleist,  might,  simply  as 
they  were,  in  their  naturalibm  and  ponttfisalibus,  disembark  in  that 
Island,  without  danger  of  becoming  hermits,  except  in  so  far  as  hermits 
may  be  worshipped  there. 

On  the  romantic'1  side,  however,  we  could  not  wish  the  Briton  to  cast 
his  first  glance  at  us : for  the  Briton, — to  whom  nothing  is  So  poetical 
as  the  commonweal, — requires  (being  used  to  the  weight  of  gold),,  even 
for  a golden  age  of  poetry,  the  thick  golden  wing-covers  of  his  epithet- 
poets  ; not  the  transparent  gossamer  wings  of  the  Romanticists ; no 
many-coloured  butterfly-dust  ; but,  at  lowest,  flower-dust  that  'will  grow 
to  something. 

But  though  this  gifted  Inspectress  of  Germany  has  done  us  little 
furtherance  with  the  French,  nay  perhaps  hindrance,  inasmuch  as  she 
has  spoken  forth  our  praise  needlessly  in  mere  comparisons  with  the 
French,  instead  of  speaking  it  without  offensive  allusions, — the  better 
service  can  she  do  us  with  another  people,  namely,  with  the  Germans 
themselves. 

In  this  respect,  not  only  in  the  first  place  may  the  critic,  but  also  in 
the  second  place  the  patriot,  return  her  his  thanks.  It  is  not  the  out- 
ward man,  but  the  inward,  that  needs  mirrors.  We  cannot  wholly  see 
ourselves,  except  in  the  eye  of  a foreign  seer  The  Reviewer  would  be 
happy  to  see  and  enter  a mirror-gallery,  or  rather  picture-gallery,  in 
which  our  faces,  limned  by  quite  different  nations,  by  Portuguese,  by 
Scotchmen,  by  Russians,  Corsicans,  were  hanging  up,  and  where  we 

1 Romantisch,  ‘ romantic,’  it  will  be  observed,  is  here  nsed  in  a scientific  sense,  and  has 
no  concern  with  the  writing  or  reading  (or  acting)  of  ‘romances.’ — T. 


130 


APPENDIX. 


might  learn  how  differently  we  looked  to  eyes  that  were  different.  By 
comparison  with  foreign  peculiarity,  our  own  peculiarity  discerns  and 
ennobles  itself.  Thus,  for. example,  our  Authoress,  profitably  for  us, 
holds  up  and  reflects  our  German  longueurs  (interminabilities),  our  dull 
jesting,  our  fanaticism,  and  our  German  indifference  tb  the  file. 

Against  the  last  error, — against  the  rule-of-thumb  style  ol  these  days, — 
reviewers  collectively  ought  really  to  fire  and  slash  with  an  especial 
fury.  There  was  a time,  in  Germany,  when  a Lessing,  a Winkelmann, 
filed  tlieir  periods  like  Plato  or  Cicero,  and  Klopstock  and  Schiller  their 
verses  like  Virgil  or  Horace  ; when,  as  Tacitus,  we  thought  more  of  dis- 
leafing  than  of  covering  with  leaves  ; in  short,  of  a disleafing,  which,  as 
in  the  vine,  ripens  and  incites  the  grapes.  There  was  such  a time,  but 
the  present  has  had  it  ; and  we  now  write,  and  paint,  and  patch  straight- 
forward, as  it  comes  to  hand,  and  study  readers  and  writers  not  much, 
but  appear  in  print.  Corrections,  at  present,  seem  as  costly  to  us,  as  if, 
like  Count  Alfieri,  we  had  them  to  make  on  printing-paper,  at  the  charges 
of  our  printer  and  purse.  The  public  book-market  is  to  be  our  bleach- 
green  ; and  the  public,  instead  of  us,  is  to  correct ; and  then,  in  the 
second  edition,  we  can  pare  off  somewhat,  and  clap  on  somewhat. 

But  it  is  precisely  this  late  correction,  when  the  former  author,  with 
his  former  mood  and  love,  is  no  longer  forthcoming,  that  works  with 
dubious  issue.  Thus  Schiller  justly  left  his  Robbers  unaltered.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  same  sun- warmth  of  creation  can,  in  a second  hour, 
return  as  a sun-warmth  of  ripening.  Writers  who  mean  to  pay  the 
world  only  in  plated  coins  can  offer  no  shadow  of  reason  for  preferring 
first  thoughts  ; since  the  very  thought  they  write  -down  must,  in  their 
heads,  during  that  minute’s  space,  have  already  gone  through  several 
improved  editions. 

Still  deeper  thanks  than  those  of  the  critic  to  our  Authoress,  let  the 
patriot  give  her.  Through  the  whole  work  there  runs  a veiled  sorrow 
that  Germany  should  be  found  kneeling,  and,  like  the  camel,  raise  it- 
self still  bent  and  heavy-laden.  Hence  her  complaints 1 that  the  present 
Germans  have  only  a philosophical  and  no  political  character  ; — farther, 
that  the  German,2  even  through  his  moderate  climate,  in  which  he  has 
not  the  extremes  of  heat  and  cold  to  encounter,  but  without  acquire- 
ment of  hardiness  easily  secures  himself  against  evils  of  an  equable 
nature,  should  be  softening  into  unwarlike  effeminacy  ; — farther,  those 
other  complaints,3  about  our  division  of  ranks,  our  deficiency  in  diplo- 
matic craft  and  lying  ; about  the  German  great,  who,  to  the  tedium  of 
the  French  themselves,  still  take  an  interest  in  Louis  Fourteenth’s 
mistresses  and  anecdotes.4  Thus  she  says,5 

1 Les  Allemands  out  besoin  de  dedaigner  pour  devenir  les  plus  forts ; ’ 
and  two  lines  lower, 

. 1 Tom.  v.  ch.  11.  2 Tom.  i.  p.  20.  3 Ibid.  i.  ch.  2.  1 Ibid.  i.  ch.  9.  5 Tom.  v.  p.  200. 


APPENDIX. 


137 


1 Ce  sont  les  seuls  hommes,  peut-etre,  auxquels  on  pouvait  conseiller 
l’orgueil  comme  un  moyen  de  devenir  meilleurs.’ 

She  is  almost  right.  Not  as  if,  one  towards  another,  and  in  words, 
we  did  not  set  ourselves  forward,  and  take  airs  enough,  on  printed 
paper  ; — each  stands  beside  the  others  with  a ready-plaited  garland  for 
him  in  his  hand  ; — but  in  actions,  and  towards  foreigners  and  persons 
in  authority,  it  is  still  to  be  lamented  that  we  possess  but  two  cheeks 
for  the  receiving  of  cuffs,  in  place  of  four,  like  the  Janushead , 
although,  in  this  cheek-deficiency,  we  do  mend  matters  a little,  wlieu 
* we — turn  round,  and  get  the  remainder.  During  the  French  war,  and 

in  the  peace  before  it,  there  were  many  statesmen,  if  not  states  also, 
that  considered  themselves  mere  half-stuff,  as  rags  in  the  paper-mill  are 
called,  when  they  are  not  cut  small  enough, — till  once  they  were  en- 
nobled into  whole-stuff , when  the  devil  (so,  in  miller-speech,  let  Na- 
poleon’s sceptre  be  named)  had  altogether  hacked  them  into  finest 
shreds. 

In  vol.  v.  p.  123,  is  a long  harsh  passage,  where  the  German  sub- 
serviency is  rated  worse  than  the  Italian  ; because  our  physiognomies 
and  manners  and  philosophical  systems  promise  nothing  but  heart  and 
courage — and  yet  produce  it  not.  Here,  and  in  other  passages  regarding 
Prussia,  where  1 she  says, 

‘ La  capitale  de  la  Prusse  ressemble  a la  Prusse  elle-meme  : les  edifices 
et  les  institutions  out  age  d’homme,  et  rien  de  plus,  parcequ’un  seul 
liomme  en  est  hauteur,’ — 

one  willingly  forgives  her  the  exaggeration  of  her  complaints  ; not  only 
because  time  has  confuted  them,  and  defended  us  and  re-exalted  us  to 
our  ancient  princedoms,  hut  also  because  her  tears  of  anger  over  us  are 
only  warmer  tears  of  love,  with  which  she  sees,  in  the  Germans,  falling 
angels  at  war  with  fallen.  * 

The  Preface  gives  a letter  from  Police-minister  and  General  Savary  to 
Madame,  wherein,  with  much  sense,  he  asserts  that  the  work  is  not  of 
a French  spirit,  and  that  she  did  well  to  leave  out  the  name  of  the 
Empemur,  seeing  there  was  no  worthy  place  for  him.  ‘ 11  n'y  pouvait 
trouver  de  place  qui  fut  digue  de  lui.’  says  the  General ; meaning,  that 
among  so  many  great  poets  and  philosophers,  of  various  ages  and 
countries,  the  Elbese  would  not  have  cut  the  best  figure,  or  looked  digne 
(worshipful)  enough.  The  gallant  Police-minister  deserves  here  to  he 
discriminated  from  the  vulgar  class  of  lickspittles,  who  so  nimbly  pick 
up  and  praise  whatever  falls  from  princes,  especially  whatever  good, 
without  imitating  it ; hut  rather  to  be  ranked  among  the  second  and 
higher  class  (so  to  speak)  who  lick  up  any  rabid  saliva  of  their  superior, 
and  thereby  run  off  as  mad  and  fiery  as  himself.  Only  thus,  and  not  other- 


> Tom.  i.  p.  103. 


138 


APPENDIX. 


wise,  could  tlie  General,  from  those  detached  portions  which  the  censor 
had  cut  out,  have  divined,  as  from  outpost  victories,  that  the  entire  field 
was  to  be  attacked  and  taken.  Accordingly,  the  whole  printed  Edition 
was  laid  hold  of,  and,  as  it  were,  under  a second  paper-mill  devil,  hacked 
anew  into  beautiful  pulp.  Nor  is  that  delicate  feeling  of  the  whilom 
censors  and  clippers  to  be  contemned,  whereby  these  men,  by  the 
faintest  allusion,  smell  out  the  crown-debts  of  their  crown-robber 
(usurper),  and  thereby  proclaim  them.  The  Sphinx  in  Elba,  who,  un- 
like the  ancient  one,  spared  only  him  that  could  not  rede  his  riddle, — 
(a  riddle  consisting  in  this,  to  make  Europe  like  the  Turkish  grammar, 
wherein  there  is  but  one  conjugation,  one  declension,  no  gender,  and  no 
exception), — could  not  but  reckon  a description  of  the  Germans,  making 
themselves  a power  within  a power,  to  be  ticklish  matter.  And  does 
not  the  issue  itself  testify  the  sound  sense  of  these  upper  and  under 
censors  ? Forasmuch  as  they  had  to  do  with  a most  deep  and  polished 
enemy,  whom  they  could  nowise  have  had  understanding  enough  to  see 
through,  were  it  not  that,  in  such  cases,  suspicion  sees  farther  than 
your  half-understanding.  She  may  often  (might  they  say),  under  that 
patient  nun-veil  of  liers,  be  as  diplomatically  mischievous  as  any  nun- 
prioress. 

But,  not  to  forget  the  Work  itself,  in  speaking  of  its  fortunes,  the 
Reviewer  now  proceeds  to  some  particular  observations  on  certain  chap- 
ters ; first,  however,  making  a general  one  or  two.  No  foreigner  has 
yet,  with  so  wide  a glance  and  so  wide  a heart,  apprehended  and  repre- 
sented our  German  style  of  poetry,  as  this  foreign  lady.  She  sees  French 
poetry, — which  is  a computable  glittering  crystal,  compared  with  the 
immeasurable  organisation  of  the  German, — really  in  its  true  form, 
though  with  preference  to  that  form,  when  she  describes  it  as  a poesie 
de  societe.  In  the  Vorschule  der  Aesthetik, 1 it  was,  years  ago,  described 
even  so,  though  with  less  affection  ; and  in  general  terms,  still  earlier, 
•by  Herder.  The  Germans,  again,  our  Authoress  has  meted  and  painted 
chiefly  on  the  side  of  their  comparability  and  dissimilarity  to  the  French  ; 
and  hereby  our  own  self-subsistence  and  peculiar  life  has  much  less 
clearly  disclosed  itself  to  her.  In  a comparison  of  Nations,  one  may 
skip  gaily  along,  among  perfect  truths,  as  along  radii,  and  skip  wer  the 
centre  too,  and  miss  it. 

Concerning  the  chapters  in  the  First  Volume,  one  might  say  of  our 
Authoress  in  her  absence  almost  the  same  thing  as  before  her  face.  For 
generalities,  such  as  nations,  countries,  cities,  are  seized  and  judged  of 
by  her  wide  traveller-glance,  better  than  specialities  and  poets,  by  her 
Gallic,  narrow,  female  taste ; as,  indeed,  in  general,  large  masses,  by 
the  free  scope  they  yield  for  allusions,  are,  in  the  hands  of  a gifted 
writer,  the  most  productive.  However,  it  is  chiefly  polite  Germany, 
and  most  of  all  literary  Germany,  that  has  sat  to  her  on  this  occasion  ; 

1 B.  iii.  k.  2. 


APPENDIX. 


139 


and  of  tlie  middle  class,  nothing  bnt  the  literary  heights  have  come  into 
view.  Moreover,  she  attributes  to  climate  what  she  should  have  looked 
for  in  history : thus  1 she  finds  the  temperate  regions  more  favourable 
to  sociality  than  to  poetry,  ‘ ce  sont  les  delices  du  midi  oil  les  rigveurs  du 
nord  qui  ebranlent  fortement  l' imagination therefore,  South  Ger- 
many, that  is,  Franconia,  Swabia,  Bavaria  and  Austria.  Now,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  circumstance  that,  in  the  first  three  of  these  countries, 
the  alternation  between  the  flower-splendour  of  spring  and  the  cloudy 
cold  of  winter  raises  both  the  temperate  Warmth  and  the  temperate  cold- 
ness to  the  poetical  degree,  thereby  giving  them  tico  chances,  the  opin- 
ion of  our  Authoress  stands  contradicted  by  mild  Saxony,  mild  Branden- 
burg, England,  Greece,  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  warm  Naples  and  cold 
Russia  on  the  other.  Nay,  rather  extreme  frost  and  extreme  heat  may 
he  said  to  oppress  and  exhaust  the  poet ; and  the  Castalian.  fountain 
either  evaporates  or  freezes.  On  the  other  hand,  regions  lying  inter- 
mediate between  these  temperatures  are  those  where  mind  and  poetry 
are  met  with  unshackled. 

In  chap,  ii.,  de  Vesprit  de  conversation,  she  describes  very  justly  the 
art  of  talking  (different  from  the  art  of  speaking) : 2 

‘ Le  genre  de  bien-etre  que  fait  eprouver  une  conversation  animee  ne 
consiste  precisement  dans  le  sujet  de  conversation  ; les  idees  ni  les  con- 
naissances  qu’on  peut  y developper  n’en  sont  pas  le  principal  interet  ; 
c’est  une  certaine  maniere  d’agir  les  uns  sur  les  autres,  de  se  faire  plaisir 
reciproquement  et  avec  rapidite,  de  parler  aussitot  qu’on  pense,  de  jouir 
a l’instant  de  soi-meme,  d’etre  applaudi  (applaudie)  sans  travail,  de  mani- 
fester  son  esprit  dans  toutes  les  nuances  par  l’accent,  le  geste,  le  regard, 
enfin  de  produire  a volonte  comme  une  sorte  d’electricite,  que  fait  jaillir 
des  etincelles.  ’ 

The  passage  3 where  she  counsels  the  Germans  to  acquire  social  cult- 
ure and  resignation  in  respect  of  social  refinement,  merits  German  at- 
tention. It  is  true,  she  should  not,  before  denying  us  and  prescribing 
us  the  French  art  of  talking,  have  said  : 4 

‘ L ’ esprit  de  conversation  a quelquefois  Vinconvenient  d’alterer  la  sin- 
cerite  du  caract&re  ; ce  n’est  pas  une  tromperie  combinee,  mais  improvi- 
see,  si  l’on  peut  s’exprimer  ainsi : ’ 

which,  in  plain  language,  signifies,  in  this  art  there  is  one  unpleasant 
circumstance,  that  sometimes  your  honesty  of  heart  suffers  thereby  ; 
and  you  play  the  real,  literal  knave,  though  only  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  and  without  special  preparation.  For  the  rest,  it  must  he 
such  passages  as  this,  where  she  denies  us  these  moral  and  jesthetic 
Gallicisms,  allowing  us,  for  compensation,  nothing  but  learning,  depth 


1 Tom.  i.  c.  5. 

2 Page  68. 


3 Page  81. 
* Page  70. 


140 


APPENDIX. 


of  heart  and  thought  ; such  passages  it  must  he  by  light  of  which  the 
Journal  de  Paris,  finding  us  denied  not  only  the  tromperie  corribinee,  but 
now  even  the  improcisee,  has  discovered  that  our  Authoress  is  a secret 
enemy  of  the  Germans ; who  will  surely  (hopes  the  Journal)  get  into 
anger  with  her,  though,  as  always,  not  till  late.  For  sharply  as  she  at- 
tacks the  French,  she  does  it  only  on  the  moral  side,  which  these  for- 
give the  more  easily  and  feel  the  more  faintly,  the  more  she  is  in  the 
right ; but  we  again  are  assaulted  in  graver  wise,  and  with  other  conse- 
quence, namely  on  the  side  of  our  understanding,  which,  as  compared 
with  the  Gallic,  in  regard  to  business,  to  knowledge  of  the  world,  nay 
to  combining  and  arranging  works  of  art,  she  everywhere  pronounces 
inferior. 

‘ Les  Allemands  mettent  tres-rarement  en  scene  dans  leurs  comedies 
des  ridicules  tires  de  leur  propre  pays  ; ils  n’observent  pas  les  autres  ; 
encore  moins  sont-ils  capables  de  l’examiner  eux-m  mes  sous  les  rap- 
ports exterieurs,  ils  croiraient  presque  manquer  a la  loyauts  qu’ils  se 
doivent.’ 

To  form  the  plan,  to  order  the  whole  scenes  towards  one  focus  of  im- 
pression (effet),  this,  says  she,  is  the  part  of  Frenchmen  ; but  the  Ger- 
man, out  of  sheer  honesty,  cannot  do  it.  Nevertheless,  our  Lessing 
vowed  that  he  could  remodel  every  tragedy  of  Corneille  into  more  cun- 
ning and  more  regular  shape  ; and  his  criticisms,  as  well  as  his  Emilia 
Galotti,  to  say  nothing  of  Schiller  and  all  the  better  German  critics,  are 
answer  enough  to  Madame  de  Stacks  reproach. 

Three  times,  and  in  as  many  ways,  she  accounts  for  our  deficiency  in 
the  art  of  witty  speech.  First,  from  our  language  : but  had  she  for- 
gotten her  German  when  she  wrote  concerning  it,  ‘ La  construction  ne 
permetpas  toujours  de  terminer  une  phrase  par  V expression  la  plus  pi- 
quante  ? ’ 1 For  does  not  directly,  on  the  contrary,  our  language,  alone 
among  all  the  modern  ones,  reserve  any  word  it  pleases,  any  part  of 
speech  without  exception — nay  sometimes  a half-word,'-  naturally  and 
without  constraint,  for  a dessert-wine  of  conclusion  ? Madame  de 
Stall  should  also,  to  inform  herself,  have  read  at  least  a few  dozen  vol- 
umes of  our  epigram-anthologies  with  their  thousand  end-stings.  What 
do  Lessing’s  dialogues  want,  or  our  translations  from  the  French,  in  re- 
gard to  pliancy  of  language  ? But,  on  the  whole,  we  always, — this  is 
her  second  theory  of  our  conversational  maladroitness, — wish  too  much 
to  say  something  or  other,  and  not,  like  the  French,  nothing : a Ger- 
man wishes  to  express  not  only  himself,  but  also  something  else  ; and 
under  this  something  we  frequently  include  sentiment,  principle,  truth, 

1 Tom.  i.  p.  84. 

3 Paul  has  made  this  very  sentence  an  exa  mple  of  his  doctrine ; one  half  of  the  word 
‘ reserve  ’ ( heben ) occurring  at  the  commencement,  the  other  half  ( auf ) not  till  the  end. 
— T. 


APPENDIX. 


141 


instruction.  A sort  of  disgust  comes  over  us  to  see  a man  stand  speak- 
ing on,  and  quite  coolly  determined  to  sliovv  us  nothing  but  himself : 
for  even  the  narrator  of  a story  is  expected  to  propose  rather  our  enjoy- 
ment in  it  than  his  own  selfish  praise  for  telling  it. 

In  the  third  place,  we  are  too  destitute,  complains  our  Authoress,  of 
wit,  consequently  of  bon-mots,  and  so  forth.  Reviewer  complains,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  the  French  are  too  destitute  thereof.  A Hippel,  a 
Lichtenberg,  like  a Young  or  Pope,  has  more  and  better  wit.  than  a 
whole  French  decade  will  produce.  French  wit,  reflection-wit  (Re- 
viewer here  perfectly  coincides  with  Jean  Paul  in  his  divisions  of  wit), 
surprises  with  one  light  resemblance,  and  with  its  prompt  visibility, 
like  a French  garden,  only  once : British  and  German  wit  treats  us 
with  the  comparison  of  resemblances  reflecting  one  another,  and  with 
the  continuous  enjoyment  of  an  English  garden.  For  the  reperusal  of 
Lichtenberg,  Reviewer  commonly  waits  a year ; for  the  reperusal  of 
Voltaire  ten  years  ; for  the  reperusal  of  French  Journalists  sixty  years  ; 
for  that  of  Hamann  as  many  minutes.  The  German  of  spirit  is  almost 
ashamed  to  be  so  light-witted  as  a Frenchman  ; and  must  make  an  effort 
not  to  make  an  effort.  If  he  do  not  grudge  the  labour,  he  can  heap  up, 
like  Weisse  in  his  Satires,  more  antitheses  in  a page  than  a Frenchman 
in  a book.  Men  of  the  world,  who  in  German  are  merely  smooth  and 
correct,  glitter  in  French  with  witty  turns  ; it  is  will,  therefore,  that 
chooses  here,  not  inability.  One  may  say,  not  this  and  that  French- 
man, but  the  whole  French  people,  has  wit : but  so  common  a wit  can, 
even  for  that  reason,  be  no  deep  one. 

What  farther  was  to  be  said  against  our  want  of  French  skill  in  talk- 
ing, Reviewer  leaves  to  the  English,  Spaniards,  Italians,  who  all  share 
it  with  us. 

The  following  passage  1 may  reconcile  the  French  with  our  Author- 
ess : ‘ En  France  la  plupart  cles  lecteurs  ne  veulent  jamais  etre  emus,  ni 
‘ meme  s’amuser  aux  depens  de  leur  conscience  litteraire  ; le  scrupule  s'est 
lrifugie  Id.’’  In  p.  13,  she  makes  Hans  Sachs  compose  before  the  Refor- 
mation ; and  in  p.  14,  Luther  translate  the  Psalms  and  the  Bible.  This 
to  a Frenchman,  who  would  show  literary,  may  be  detrimental,  if  he 
repeats  it.  In  p.  17,  she  finds  a likeness  between  Wieland’s  prose  and 
Voltaire’s.  Give  her  or  give  him  Voltaire’s  wit,  conciseness,  lightness, 
pliancy,  there  can  be  nothing  liker.  Reviewer  has  a comfort  in  having 
Wieland  called  at  once,  by  this  class  of  admirers,  the  German  Voltaire, 
and  by  that  other,  the  German  Greek  : he  needs  not,  in  that  case,  re- 
flect and  confute,  but  simply  leaves  the  speakers  to  their  reciprocal  an- 
nihilation. For  the  rest,  the  whole  of  this  chapter,  as  well  as  the 
twelfth,  lends  and  robs  the  good  Wieland  so  lavishly,  that  we  rather 
beg  to  omit  it  altogether.  His  Comic  Tales  are,  in  her  view,2  imitees  du 
Grec  ; so  that  most  of  the  French  painters,  their  subjects  being  myth- 
> Tom.  jj.  2,  2 Page  67. 


142 


APPENDIX. 


ological,  must  also  lie  imitators  of  the  Greeks.  In  p.  02,  she  must 
either  have  misunderstood  some  Germans,  or  these  must  have  misun 
derstood  the  Greeks,  when  she  says  of  Fate,  in  contradistinction  to 
Providence,  ‘ Le  sort  (the  Greek  Fate)  ne  compte  pour  lien  les  sentimens 
des  hommes.'  Sophocles  seven  times  says  no  to  this  ; and  as  often 
.ZEschylus.  Nay,  so  inexorably  does  Fate  pursue  every  immorality, 
especially  audacious  immorality,  that  (unlike  Providence)  it  inflicts 
the  punishment,  even  under  repentance  and  reform.  In  p.  90,  she 
calls  Klopstock’s  Ode  to  his  Future  Love  a sujet  maniere  : 

1 Klopstock  est  moins  lieureux  quand  il  ecrit  sur  l’amour  : il  a,  comme 
Dorat,  adresse  des  vers  a sa  maitresse  future,  et  ce  sujet  maniere  n’a  pas 
bien  inspire  sa  muse  : il  faut  n’avoir  pas  souffert,  pour  se  jouer  avec  le 
sentiment ; et  quand  une  personne  serieuse  essaie  un  semblable  jeu  tou- 
jours  une  contrainte  secrete  l’empeclie  de  s’y  montrer  naturelle.’ 

How  could  her  soul,  that  elsewhere  responds  to  all  pure-toned  chords 
of  love,  mistake  the  yet  unloved  longing,  wherewith  the  unloved  and 
yet  loving  youth  looks  into  his  future  heart,  as  with  a coming  home- 
sickness ? Does  even  the  prosaic  young  man  paint  him  an  ideal,  why 
shall  not  the  poetical  incorporate  and  draw  nearer  to  him  the  dear  form 
that  is  glancing  for  him,  though  as  yet  unseen  ? It  is  true,  this  holds  only 
of  the  first  love  ; for  a poem  on  a second,  third  and  future  love,  would 
doubtless  merit  the  blame,  which,  indeed,  she  probably  so  meant. 

The  long  passage  from  Voss’s  Louise 1 seems  introduced  to  bring  even 
the  German  reader,  by  the  bald  translation,  into  a state  of  yawning ; 
and  the  happier  French  one  into  snoring  and  even  snorting.  Quite  as 
unexpectedly  has  she  extracted  from  Maria  Stuart , instead  of  bright 
lyric  altar-fire,  the  long  farewell  of  Maria,  too  long  even  for  German 
readers,  and  only  for  the  epos  not  too  short ; and  rendered  it  moreover 
in  prose. 

To  Goethe  she  does  justice  where  she  admires  him,  hut  less  where  she 
estimates  him.  His  poems  she  judges  more  justly  than  she  does  his 
plays.  Everywhere,  indeed,  her  taste  borders  more  on  the  German 
when  applied  to  short  pieces  than  to  long  ones  ; above  all,  than  to 
theatrical  ones  ; for  here  the  French  curtain  shrouds  up  every  foreign 
one.  With  her  opinion  of  Goethe  as  a literary  man,  the  Germans,  since 
the  appearauce  of  his  Autobiograpy,  may  readily  enough  dispense. 

Of  ch.  15,  de  I’art  dramatique , Reviewer  could  undertake  to  say  noth- 
ing, except  something  ill,  did  time  permit. 

Shakspeare,  in  whose  child-like  and  poetic  serene  soul  (as  it  were  a 
poetic  Christ-child)  she  celebrates  an  ironic  presque  MachiaveUiqae  in  de- 
lineating character,  she  ought  to  praise  less  on  hearsay,  since  neither 
hearsay  nor  her  own  feeling  can  teach  her  how  to  praise  Goethe’s  Faust. 
It  is  probable  she  knows  only  the  French  (un-souled  and  un-hearted) 
1 Tom.  ii:  p.  S2. 


APPENDIX. 


143 


Shakspeare,  and  so  values  tlie  man  ; but  for  Goethe’s  Faust  too,  slie 
should  have  waited  for  a French  version  and  perversion  to  give  him 
somewhat  better  commendation  than  that  she  sends  him  to  France  with. 

If  a translation  is  always  but  an  inverted,  pale,  secondary  rainbow  of 
the  original  splendour,  Madame  de  Stael’s,  as  in  general  any  French 
translation  of  Faust , is  but  a gray,  cold,  mock-sun  to  Goethe’s  real  flam- 
ing Sun  in  Leo.  At  times,  in  place  of  a pallid  translation,  she  gives  a 
quite  new  speech;  for  example,1  she  makes  the  Devil  say  of  Faust, 
‘ Cet  homme  ne  sera  jamais  qu'd  demi  per  vers,  et  c'est  en  vain  qu’il  seflatte 
de  paroenir  d Vetre  entierement.  ’ In  the  original  appears  no  word  of  this, 
but  merely  the  long,  good,  quite  different  passage,  * Verachte  nur  Ver- 
nunft  und  Wissensehaft,'  de.  That  weighty  omissions  have  prevented 
light  translations  in  her  work,  is  happj-  for  the  work  of  Goethe.  This 
(like  Dante’s  Dicine  Comedy)  Diabolic  Tragedy,  in  which  whole  spirit- 
ual universes  act  and  fall,  she  has  contracted  and  extracted  into  a love- 
tale.  Of  this  sole  and  last  zodiacal  light  which  the  set  sun  of  Shak- 
speare has  cast  up  over  Germany,  our  lady  Authoress  wishes  heartily  2 
that  another  such,  or  more  such,  may  not  be  written.  Reviewer  vent- 
ures to  give  her  hope  of  fulfilment  herein,  and  pledges  himself  for  all 
Frenchmen.  Consider  only  : 3 

‘ II  ne  faut  y clierclier  ni  le  goht,  ni  la  mesure,  ni  l’art  qui  clioisit  et 
qui  termine  ; mais  si  l’imagination  pouvait  se  figurer  un  chaos  intel- 
lectuel  tel  qu’on  a sonvent  decrit  le  chaos  materiel,  le  Faust  de  Goethe 
devrait  avoir  <5te  compose  a cette  epoque.’ 

Readeresses,  why  will  every  one  of  you  insist  on  thinking  herself  a 
reader  V 

Her  hard  judgment  on  Faust,  Madame  had  beforehand  softened4  by 
the  praise  she  bestowed  on  Gdtz  ton  BerlieJungen : ‘ ily  a des  traits  de 
genie  ca  et  Id,'  not  only  here  but  there  also,  'dans son  drained  Less  warm- 
ly 5 does  she  praise  the  Natural  Daughter  ; because  the  personages  there- 
in, like  shades  in  Odin’s  Palace,  lead  only  an  imaged  life  ; inasmuch  as 
they  hear  no  real  Christian  Directory-names,  but  are  merely  designated 
as  King,  Father,  Daughter,  &c.  As  for  this  last  defect,  Reviewer  fan- 
cies he  could  remedy  it,  were  he  but  to  turn  up  his  French  history  and 
pick  out  at  random  the  words,  Louis,  Orleans,  &c.  and  therewith  christen 
the  general  titles,  father,  daughter  ; for  in  the  structure  of  the  work, 
Madame  de  Stael  will  confess  there  are  as  firm,  determinate,  beheading 
machines,  arsenic-hats,  poison-pills,  steel  traps,  oubliettes,  spring-guns, 
introduced,  as  could  be  required  of  any  court,  whither  the  scene  of  the 
piece  might  be  transferred. 

There  is  one  censure  from  our  Authoress,  however,  which  Reviewer 

' Tom.  iii.  p.  137.  3 Page  127. 

3Pagel80.  4 Tom.  iii.  p.  402. 

5 Page  126. 


144 


APPENDIX. 


himself  must  countersign,  though  it  touches  the  sweet  orange-flower  gar- 
land, Goethe’s  Tasso.  Reviewer  had  been  pleased  to  notice,  in  this 
piece,  which  cannot  he  acted  in  any  larger  space  than  within  the  cham- 
bers of  the  brain,  no  downcome,  save  the  outcome,  or  end  ; where  the 
moral  knot,  which  can  only  be  loosed  in  Tasso’s  heart,  is,  by  cutting  of 
the  material  knot,  by  banishment  from  court,  left  unloosed  to  accom- 
pany him  in  exile  ; and  can  at  any  hour  raise  up  a second  fifth-act. 
This  want,  indeed,  is  not  felt  in  reading  the  work  so  much  as  after 
reading  it.  Our  Authoress,  however,  points  out 1 another  want,  which, 
in  the  piece  itself,  has  a cooling,  at  least  a shadowing  influence  : that, 
namely,  in  the  first  place,  Princess  Leonora  is  drawn  not  according  to 
the  warm  climate,  but  rather  as  a German  maiden  ; and  so  thinks  and 
ponders  about  her  love,  instead  of  either  sacrificing  herself  to  it  or  it  to 
herself  ; and  that,  secondly,  the  Poet  Tasso  acts  not  like  an  Italian  ac- 
customed to  outward  movement  and  business,  but  like  a solitary  Ger- 
man, and  unskilfully  entangles  himself  in  the  perplexities  of  life. 

For  the  rest,  her  whole  praise  of  Goethe  will,  in  the  sour  head  of  a 
Frenchman,  run  to  sheer  censure  ; and  her  censure  again  will  remain 
censure,  and  get  a little  sourer,  moreover. 

Perhaps  the  kindliest  and  justest  of  all  her  portraitures  is  that  of 
Schiller.  Not  only  is  she,  in  her  poetry,  many  times  a sister  of  Schil- 
ler ; but  he  also,  in  his  intellectual  pomp  and  reflex  splendour,  is  now 
and  then  a distant  though  beatified  relation  of  Corneille  and  Crebillon. 
Hence  his  half -fortune  with  the  French  : for,  in  consideration  of  a 
certain  likeness  to  themselves,  some  unlikeness  and  greatness  will  be 
pardoned.  If  Gallic  tragedy  is  often  a centaur,  begotten  by  an  Ixion 
with  a cloud,  Schiller  also,  at  times,  has  confounded  a sun-horse  and 
tliunder-horse  with  the  horse  of  the  Muses,  and  mounted  and  driven 
the  one  instead  of  the  other. 

The  Donau-Nymphe  (Nymph  of  the  Danube)  obtains 5 the  honour  of 
an  extract,  and  the  praise, 

‘Le  sujet  de  cette  piece  semble  plus  ingenieux  que  populaire  ; mais 
les  scenes  merveilleuses  y sont  melees  et  variees  avec  tant  d’art,  qu’elle 
amuse  egalement  tous  les  spectateurs.’ 

Reviewer  has  heard  Herder,  more  in  earnest  than  in  jest,  call  the  Zau- 
berflote  the  only  good  opera  the  Germans  had. 

After  sufficiently  misunderstanding,  and  faint-praising  Goethe’s  Clus- 
ter and  Ottilie ,3  she  ventures,  though  a lady,  and  a French  one,  to  let 

1 Tom.  iii.  p.  122. 

2 Tom.  iv.  p.  36. 

3 She  finds  Ottilie  not  moving  enough  ; the  Reviewer  again  finds  that  Ottilie  not  only 
moves  the  heart,  but  crushes  it.  This  more  than  female  Werter  excites  deeper  interest 
for  her  love  than  the  male  one ; and,  in  an  earlier  time,  would  have  intoxicated  all  hearts 
with  tears.  But  what  always  obstructs  a heroine  with  the  female-reading  world,  is  the 
circumstance  that  she  is  not  the  hero. 


APPENDIX. 


145 


fall  this  and  the  other  remark  about  humeur ; and,  as  it  were,  to  utter 
a judgment  (here  Reviewer  founds  on  the  printed  words)  concerning 
S\vift  and  Sterne.  Sterne’s  humour,  in  Tristram,  she  imputes  to  phrase- 
ology ; 1 nay,  to  phrases,  not  to  ideas;  and  infers  that  Sterne  is  not 
translatable,  and  Swift  is.  Nevertheless,  both  of  them  have  found  very 
pretty  lodgings  in  this  country  with  Bode  and  Waser.  Thereafter,  in 
the  same  chapter  on  Romances,  she  makes  Asmus,  who  has  written  no 
romance,  the  drawbridge  for  a sally  against  Jean  Paul. 

Her  shallow  sentence,  as  one  more  passed  on  him,  may,  among  so 
many, — some  friendlier,  some  more  hostile, — pass  on  with  the  rest  ; till 
the  right  one  appear,  which  shall  exaggerate  neither  praise  nor  blame  ; 
for  hitherto,  as  well  the  various  pricking-girdles  (cilices)  in  which  he 
was  to  do  penance,  have  been  so  wide  for  his  body  that  they  slipped  to 
his  feet,  as  in  likewise  the  laurel-wreaths  so  large  for  his  head  that 
they  fell  upon  his  shoulders.  Our  Authoress  dexterously  unites  both  ; 
and  every  period  consists,  in  front,  of  a pleasant  commendation,  and 
behind  of  a fatal  mats ; and  the  left  hand  of  the  conclusion  never 
knows  what  the  right  hand  of  the  premises  doeth.  Reviewer  can  figure 
this  jester  comically  enough,  when  he  thinks  how  his  face  must,  above 
fifteen  times,  have  cheerfully  thawed  at  the  first  clauses,  and  then  sud- 
denly frozen  again  at  the  latter.  Those  mais  are  his  bitterest  enemies. 
Our  Authoress  blames  him  for  overdoing  the  pathetic  ; which  blame 
she  herself  unduly  shares  with  him  in  her  Corinne,  as  Reviewer,  in  his 
long-past  critique  thereof,  in  these  very  Jalirb'dclier,  hopes  to  have 
proved  ; and,  it  may  be,  had  that  review  of  Corinne  met  her  eye,  she 
would  rather  have  left  various  things  against  J.  P.  unsaid.  In  p.  79, 
she  writes,  that  he  knows  the  human  heart  only  from  little  German 
towns,  and  (hence)  ‘ II  y a souvent  clans  la  peinlure  de  ces  mcmvs  quelque 
chose  de  trop  innocent  pournotre  steeled  Now,  it  is  a question  whether 
J.  P.  could  not,  if  not  altogether  disprove,  yet  uncommonly  weaken, 
this  charge  of  innocence, — by  stating  that  many  of  his  works  were 
written  in  Leipzig,  Weimar,  Berlin,  &c.  ; and  that,  consequently,  his 
alleged  innocence  was  not  his  blame,  but  that  of  those  cities.  He  might 
also  set  forth  how,  in  Titan , he  has  collected  so  much  polished  court- 
corruption,  recklessness,  and  refined  sin  of  all  sorts,  that  it  is  a hard- 
ship for  him, — saying  nothing  of  those  capital  cities, — to  be  implicated 
in  any  such  guilt  as  that  of  innocence. 

However,  to  excuse  her  half  and  quarter  judgment,  let  it  not  be  con- 
cealed that  scarcely  have  two  of  his  works  ( Hesperus  and  Siebencas)  been 
gone  through  by  her ; nay  one  of  them,  Hesperus , has  not  so  much  as 
been  fairly  gone  into  ; for,  after  introducing  a not  very  important  scene 
from  Hesperus,  the  couching  of  a father’s  eyes  by  a son,  properly  a 
thing  which  every  century  does  to  the  other,  she  tables  some  shreds  of 
a second  incident  in  this  same  Hesperus , but  with  a statement  that  it  is 
01  Tom,  iv,  p.  79, 


10 


146 


APPENDIX. 


from  a different  romance.  Of  the  Rede  des  todten  Christm  (Speech  of 
the  dead  Christ),  she  has  indeed  omitted  the  superfluous  commence- 
ment, hut  also  more  than  half  of  the  unsuperfluous  conclusion,  -which 
closes  those  wounds.  Reviewer  willingly  excuses  her,  since  this  author, 
a comet  of  moderate  nucleus,  carries  so  excessive  a comet-train  of  vol- 
umes along  with  him,  that  even  up  to  the  minute  when  he  writes  this, 
such  train  has  not  yet  got  altogether  above  the  horizon. 

Oil  the  whole,  she  usually  passes  long  judgments  only  on  few-volumed 
writers, — for  instance,  Tieck,  Werner;  and  short  on  many-volumed, — 
for  instance,  the  rich  Herder,  whom  she  accommodates  in  a pretty  bow- 
erlet  of  four  sides,  of  pages.  The  New  Poetic  School,  at  least  August 
Schlegel,  whom  she  saw  act  in  Werner’s  Twenty-fourth  of  February, 
might  have  helped  her  out  a little  with  instructions  and  opinions  about 
Herder  (nay,  even  about  Jean  Paul)  as  well  as  about  Tieck ; the  more, 
as  she  seems  so  open  to  such  communications  that  they  often  come  back 
from  her  as  mere  echoes:  for,  strictly  considered,  it  is  the  New,  much 
more  than  the  Old  School,  that  really  stands  in  opposition  to  the  French. 

The  thirty-second  chapter  (des  Beaux  Arts  en  Allemagne ) does  not  re- 
quire seventeen  pages,  as  Faust  did,  to  receive  sentence  ; but  only  seven, 
to  describe  German  painting,  statuary  aud  music, — not  so  much  com- 
pressedly  as  compressingly.  Nevertheless,  Reviewer  willingly  gives  up 
even  these  seven  pages  for  the  sake  of  the  following  beautiful  remark 

‘ La  musique  des  Allemands  est  plus  variee  que  celle  des  Italiens,  et 
e’est  en  cela  peut-.  tre  qu’elle  est  moins  bonne  : 1’ esprit  est  condamn  j a 
la  variete, — e’est  sa  misire  qui  en  est  la  cause  ; mais  les  arts,  comme  le 
sentiment,  ont  une  admirable  monotonie,  celle  dont  on  voudrait  faire 
un  moment  eternel.  ’ 

The  Fifth  Volume  treats  of  Philosophies — the  French,  the  English, 
the  old  and  new  and  newest  German,  and  what  else  from  ancient  Greece 
has  to  do  with  philosophies.  Concerning  this  volume,,  a German  re- 
viewer can  offer  his  German  readers  nothing  new,  except  perhaps  whim- 
sicalities. While  men, — for  example,  Jacobi,  — after  long  studying  and 
re-studying  of  great  philosophers,  so  often  fall  into  anxiety  lest  they 
may  not  have  understood  them,  finding  the  confutation  look  so  easy, 
women  of  talent  and  breeding,  simply  from  their  gift  of  saving  No,  in- 
fer at  once  that  they  have  seen  through  them.  Reviewer  is  acquainted 
with  intellectual  ladies,  who,  in  the  hardest  philosophical  works, — for 
instance,  Fichte’s, — have  found  nothing  but  light  and  ease.  Not  what 
is  thought,  only  what  is  learned,  can  women  fancy  as  beyond  their  ho- 
rizon From  Love  they  have  acquired  a boldness,  foreign  to  us,  of 
passing  sentence  on  great  men.  Besides,  they  can  always,  instead  of 
the  conception,  the  idea,  substitute  a feeling.  In  p.  78,  Madame  de 
Stael  says  quite  naively,  she  does  not  see  why  philosophers  have  striven 


1 Tom.  iv.  p.  125. 


APPENDIX. 


147 


so  much  to  reduce  all  things  to  one  principle,  he  it  matter  or  spirit  ; 
one  or  a pair,  it  makes  little  difference,  and  explains  the  all  no  better. 
In  p.  55,  she  imparts  to  the  Parisians  several  categories  of  Kant’s  with 
an  et-eatera  ; as  it  were  an  Alphabet,  with  an  and-so-forth.  If  jesting 
is  admissible  in  a review,  the  following  passage  on  Schelling  1 may 
properly  stand  here : 

1 L'ideal  et  le  reel  tiennent,  dans  son  langage,  la  place  de  l’intelli- 
gence  et  de  la  matmre,  de  L’lMA&NATibK  et  de  l’experience  ; et  c’est 
dans  la  reunion  de  ces  deux  puissances  en  une  liarmonie  complete,  que 
oonsiste,  selon  lui.  le  principe  unique  et  absolu  de  l’univers  organise. 
Cette  liarmonie,  dont  les  deux  poles  et  le  centre  sont  l’image,  et  qui 
est  renferme  dans  le  nombre  de  trois,  de  tout  temps  si  mysterieux,  four- 
nit  a,  Schelling  des  applications  les  plus  ingeniuses. ’ 

But  we  return  to  earnest.  Consider,  now,  what  degree  of  spirit  these 
three  philosophic  spirits  can  be  expected  to  retain,  when  they  have  been 
passed  off,  and  in,  and  carried  through,  three  heads,  as  if  by  distillation 
ascending,  distillation  middle  and  distillation  descending  : for  the  three 
heads  are,  namely,— the  head  of  the  Authoress,  who  does  not  half  un- 
derstand the  philosophers;  the  head  of  the  Parisian,  who  again  half 
understands  our  Authoress  ; and  finally,  the  head  of  the  Parisianess, 
who  again  half  understands  the  Parisian.  Through  such  a series  of  in- 
termediate glasses  the  light  in  the  last  may  readily  refract  itself  into 
darkness. 

Meanwhile,  let  the  former  praise  remain  to  her  unimpaired,  that  she 
still  seizes  in  our  philosophy  the  sunny  side,  which  holds  of  the  heart, 
to  exliibitand  illuminate  the  mossy  nor£li  side  of  the  French  philosophy. 
Striking  expressions  of  noblest  sentiments  and  views  are  uncovered,  like 
pearl-muscles,  in  this  philosophic  ebb  and  flow.  Precious  also,  in  itself, 
is  the  nineteenth  chapter,  on  Marriage  Love,  though  for  this  topic,  for- 
eign in  philosophy,  it  were  hard  to  find  any  right  conductor  into  such  a 
discussion,  except,  indeed,  the  philosophers  Crates  and  Socrates  furnish 
one. 

As  the  Sixth  and  last  Volume  treats  of  Religion  aAd  Enthusiam, — 
a French  juxtaposition, — it  is  almost  her  heart  alone  that  speaks,  and  the 
language  of  this  is  always  a pure  and  rich  one.  The  separate  pearls, 
from  the  philosophic  ebb,  here  collect  themselves  into  a pearl  necklace. 
She  speaks  nobly  on  Nature,  and  Man,  and  Eternity  ; - so  likewise  on 
Enthusiasm.3  Individual  baldnesses  it  were  easy  for  Reviewer  to  ex- 
tract,— for  they  are  short  ; but  individual  splendours  difficult, — for  they 
are  too  long. 

To  one  who  loves  not  only  Germany  but  mankind,  or  rather  both  in 
each  other,  her  praise  and  high  preference  of  the  German  religious 
temper,  in  this  volume,  almost  grows  to  pain:  for,  as  we  Germans  our- 
1 Tom.  v.  p.  S3.  2 Tom.  vi.  pp.  TS-86.  3 Chap.  x. 


148 


APPENDIX. 


selves  complain  of  our  coldness,  she  could  have  found  a temperate 
climate  here  only  by  contrast  with  the  French  ice-field  of  irreligion 
from  which  she  comes.  Truly,  she  is  in  the  right.  The  French,  in 
these  very  days,  have  accepted  their  Sunday  as  crabbedly  as  the  Ger- 
mans parted  with  their  Second  Sundays,  or  Holidays,  when  forced  to  do 
it.  Thus  does  the  poisonous  meadow-saffron  of  the  Eevolution,  after 
its  autumn-flowers  have  been  left  solitary  and  withered,  still  keep  under 
ground  its  narcotic  bulb  for  the  awakened  spring  ; almost  as  if  the  spirit 
of  Freedom  in  this  Revolution,  like  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  should 
construct  and  remodel  every  foreign  people — only  not  the  Jewish,  where 
were  the  Nativity  and  Crucifixion. 

The  bitterness  of  the  Parisian  journal-corps,  who  have  charged  against 
this  Work  of  the  Baroness  more  fiercely  than  against  all  her  Romances, 
shows  us  that  it  is  something  else  than  difference  of  taste  that  they  strike 
and  fire  at : their  hearts  have  been  doubly  provoked  by  this  comparison, 
and  trebly  by  this  discordance  in  their  own  most  inward  feeling,  which 
loves  not  to  expose  itself  as  an  outward  one.  In  romances,  they  took  all 
manner  of  religion  as  it  came  ; they  could  charge  it  on  the  characters, 
and  absolve  the  poetess : but  here  she  herself, — not  with  foreign  lips, 
but  with  her  own, — has  spoken  out  for  religion,  and  against  the  country 
where  religion  is  yet  no  remigree. 

A special  Pamphlet,  published  in  Paris,  on  this  Work,  enlists  the 
method  of  question  and  answer  in  the  service  of  delusion,  to  exhibit 
bold  beauties,  by  distorting  them  from  their  accompaniments,  in  the 
character  of  bombast.  It  is  but  seldom  that  our  Authoress  sins,  and,  in 
German  fashion,  against  German  taste,  as  where  she  says,1 

• 

‘ Tons  les  moutons  du  mcrne  troupeau  viennent  donner,  les  uns  apres 
les  autres,  leurs  coups-de-tete  aux  idees,  qui  n’en  restent  moins  ce 
qu’elles  sont.’ 

In  presence  of  a descriptive  power  that  delights  foreign  nations,  one 
might  hope  the  existing  French  would  modestly  sink  mute — they  whose 
eulogistic  manndr,  in  the  Moniteur,  in  the  senate  and  everywhere, 
towards  the  throne,  has  at  all  times  been  as  strained,  windy  and  faded 
as  its  object ; and  in  whom,  as  in  men  dying  the  wrong  way  (while,  in 
common  cases,  in  the  cooling  of  the  outward  limbs,  the  heart  continues 
to  give  heat),  nothing  remains  warm  but  the  members  from  which  the 
frozen  heart  lies  farthest. 

It  is  difficult,  amid  so  many  bright  passages,  which,  like  polished 
gold,  not  only  glitter,  but  image  and  exhibit,  to  select  the  best.  For 
example,  the  description  of  the  Alps  by  night,  and  of  the  whole  festival 
of  Interlaken  ; - — the  remark  3 that  both  the  excess  of  heat  in  the  east, 
and  of  cold  in  the  north,  incline  the  mind  to  idealism  and  visuality  ; — 


1 Tom.  vi.  p.  11. 


3 Tom.  i.  ch.  xx. 


3 Tom.  v.  p.  S7. 


APPENDIX. 


149 

or  this,  ‘ Ce  qui  manque  en  France,  en  tout  genre,  c'est  le  sentiment  et 
Vhabitude  du  respect.' 1 2 

Still  more  than  we  admire  the  Work,  is  the  Authoress,  considering 
also  her  sex  and  her  nation,  to  be  admired.  Probably  she  is  the  only 
woman  in  Europe,  and  still  more  probably  the  only  French  person  in 
France,  that  could  have  written  such  a book  on  Germany.  Had  Ger- 
many been  her  cradle  and  school,  she  might  have  written  a still  better 
work,  namely,  on  France.  And  so  we  shall  wish  this  spiritual  Amazon 
strength  and  heart  for  new  campaigns  and  victories  ; and  then,  should 
she  again  prove  the  revieweress  of  a reviewer,  let  no  one  undertake  that 
matrimonial  relation  but  Frip.* 

1 Tom.  v.  p.  27.  So  likewise,  tom.  v.  pp.  11.  97,  109,  125,  207. 

2 Frip  is  the  anagram  of  J.  P.  F,  R.,  and  his  common  signature  in  such  cases.— T. 


CRITICAL  ANT)  MISCELLANEOUS 


ESSAYS 


COLLECTED  AND  REP UBLLSH ED 


BY 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO.— DEATH  OF  EDWARD  IRVING.— 
APPENDLX. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER, 
1885.  ' 


TROWS 

MINTING  AND  EOOKBINOINS  COMPANY, 

nr#  > ORK. 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


FLIGHT  FIRST. 

The  life  of  every  man  a most  indubitable  Poem,  and  Revelation  of  In- 
finity : All  named  and  unnamable  sorts,  from  the  highest  heroic 
Strophe,  to  the  lowest  ribald  Pasquil  and  libel  on  Humanity,  (p.  8). 
— The  grand  sacred  Epos,  or  Bible  of  World-History  : All  working  and 
knowing,  a faint  interpreting  and  showing-forth  of  the  infinite  Mystery 
of  Life.  Different  manner  of  reading  and  uttering : The  earnest 
Hebrew  Readers  ; whose  reading  is  still  sacred,  still  true : Gorgeous 
semi-sensual  Grandeurs  and  Splendours  of  the  early  Oriental  Magi : 
Greek  Consecration  of  the  Flesh,  and  revelation  of  the  Infinite.  Weari- 
some iteration  and  reiteration,  grown  obsolete,  of  our  modern  readings. 
(10). — Even  the  biography  of  an  utter  Scoundrel  at  times  worth  read- 
ing : The  only  thing  at  once  wholly  despicable  and  forgetable,  your  half- 
knave, he  who  is  neither  true  nor  false.  If  we  cannot  have  a Speaker 
and  Doer  of  Truth,  let  us  have  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  beholding  a 
decided  Liar.  Cagliostro,  really  a Liar  of  the  first  magnitude  ; thorough- 
paced  in  all  provinces,  heights  and  depths  of  lying.  Scientific  interest 
in  his  manner  of  life,  and  singularly  prosperous  career.  Inacessibility 
of  much  accurate  knowledge  : As  in  life,  so  now  in  History,  astonish- 
ment, mystification  and  uncertainty  still  encircle  the  Quack  of  Quacks. 
(17). — Birth  and  Boyhood  of  the  future  Prince  of  Scoundrels  : Poverty, 
idleness  and  hopeful  impudence  of  young  Beppo.  Not  seeing  his  way 
to  be  ‘a  gentleman,’  he  decides  to  be  ‘ an  Ecclesiastic.’  Intrusted  to  the 
keeping  of  a Convent- Apothecary  : First  elements  o!  medico-chemical 
conjurorship.  Short  roads  to  Enjoyment,  and  consequent  afflictions  and 
sore  contradictions.  A touch  of  grim  Humour  unfolds  itself  in  the 
youth:  He  had  now  outgrown  their  monk-discipline,  and  quits  itfoi- 
ever.  (22). — Returns  home  to  Palermo,  and  tries  Painting  and  general 
Scoundrelism.  Wheresoever  a stroke  of  mischief  is  to  be  done,  a slush 
of  enjoyment  to  be  swallowed,  there  is  he  with  all  ebullient  impulses 
ready.  Finds  a profitable  and  lasting  resource  in  Forgery.  Of  a brawl- 
ing, choleric  temper:  Visibly  rising  to  a perfected  Professor  of  Swind- 
lery.  A Treasure-digging  dodge,  and  its  catastrophe.  The  young  Raven 
is  now  fledged  for  flying,  and  soars  off.  Quits  Palermo,  and  seeks  his 
fortune  in  the  wide  World.  (26). 


6 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


FLIGHT  LAST. 

Old  Feudal  Europe  fallen  a-dozing  to  die.  Her  next  awakening,  the 
stern  Avatar  of  Democracy , and  new-birth  into  a new  Industrial  Age. 
(p.  27). — Portentous  extent  and  variety  of  Quackery  and  Quacks  in 
that  stertorous  fever-sleep  of  our  European  world.  Putrescence  not 
more  tlie  scene  of  unclean  creatures  in  the  world  physical,  than  Social 
Decay  is  of  quacks  in  the  world  moral.  National  suffering  ever  preceded 
by  national  Crime.  Dishonesty  the  raw  material  not  of  Quacks  only, 
but  also  of  Dupes.  Irreversible  death  doom.  (28).— Beppo's  adventur- 
ous haps  and  mishaps  in  that  wide-weltering  life-in-death.  Gift  of 
Fore-knowledge  wisely  denied.  Small  beginnings  : Forges  pen-draw- 
ings out  of  engravings.  Marries,  in  a country  too  prone  to  celibacy,  the 
beautiful  Lorenza  Feliciani : Domestic  privations.  In  the  charms  of  his 
Lorenza,  * a Future  confused  and  immense  : ’ They  traffic  accordingly, 
with  much  dexterity.  The  Count,  as  he  now  styles  himself,  on  his  own 
side  not  idle.  Faded  gentlemen  of  quality,  and  faded  dames  of  ditto. 
Potions,  washes,  charms  and  love-philtres : The  Greatest  Happiness  of 
the  greatest  number.  (32).— As  one  luxuriant  branch  of  industry  withers 
and  drops  off,  others  must  be  pushed  into  budding.  Cagliostro  in  Eng- 
land : Successes  and  tribulations.  Freemasonry;  Grand-Cophtaship ; 
Renovator  of  the  Universe  ; Spirit-Mediums,  and  Phosphoric  Manifesta- 
tions unutterable.  The  dog  pockets  money  enough,  and  can  seem  to 
despise  money.  Cagliostro’s  Gift  of  Tongue.  Generic  difference 
betweeen  speaking  and  public-speaking : How  to  acquire  the  miraculous 
gift  of  long-eared  eloquence.  Power  of  Belief  however  infinitesimal. 
The  Cagliostric  nimbus  of  Enchantment : Even  the  good  Lavater  could 
not  quite  see  through  him.  (39) . — Successes  and  reverses : Yisits  Peters- 
burg, but  quickly  decamps.  Mephistopheles’s  mortifying  experience 
with  Margaret  renewed  for  Cagliostro  : ‘Count  M.’  and  his  Cagliostro 
Unmasked : Such  reverses  but  specks  in  the  blaze  of  the  meridian  Sun. 
What  the  brilliant -looking  Count  and  Countess  were  to  themselves,  and 
to  each  other  : Cagliostro’s  Portrait : His  probable  Soliloquy,  and  spirit- 
ual salve  for  his  own  sores.  At  Strasburg,  in  fullest  blossom  and  proud- 
est radiance : The  Prince  Cardinal  de  Rohan,  the  inflammablest,  most 
open-handed  Dupe  he  ever  snared.  Tragedy  of  the  Diamond  Necklace 
suddenly  intervenes,  and  Dupe  and  Duper  are  flung  to  the  dogs.  (54). 
— Cagliostro  again  in  England,  living  as  he  can : A touch  of  his  old 
mocking  Humour.  Goethe’s  visit  to  his  Family  at  Palermo.  Count 
Cagliostro  now  rapidly  proceeds  with  his  Fifth  Act : Destiny  has  her  nets 
around  him  ; they  are  straitening,  straitening : He  is  gained.  Caglios- 
tro’s Workday  ended  ; only  his  account  remains  to  be  settled. — To  me 
also  a Capability  has  been  intrusted  ; shall  I work  it  out,  manlike,  into 
Faithfulness,  and  Doing  ; or,  quacklike,  into  Eatableness,  and  Simili- 
tude of  Doing  ? (65). 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO: 

m TWO  FLIGHTS.1 


[1833.] 

FLIGHT  FIRST. 

‘ The  life  of  every  man,  ’ says  our  friend  Herr  Sauerteig,  ‘ the 
‘ life  even  of  the  meanest  man,  it  were  good  to  remember,  is 
‘ a Poem  ; perfect  in  all  manner  of  Aristotelean  requisites  ; 
‘ with  beginning,  middle  and  end  ; with  perplexities,  and  so- 
‘ lutions  ; with  its  Will-strength  ( Willenkrafl ) and  warfare 
‘ against  Fate,  its  elegy  and  battle-singing,  courage  marred 
‘ by  crime,  everywhere  the  two  tragic  elements  of  Pity  and 
‘ Fear  ; above  all,  with  supernatural  machinery  enough, — for 
* was  not  the  man  born  out  of  Nonentity  ; did  he  not  die,  and 
‘ miraculously  vanishing  return  thither  ? The  most  indubit- 
‘ able  Poem  ! Nay,  whoso  will,  may  he  not  name  it  a Prophecy, 
‘ or  whatever  else  is  highest  in  his  vocabulary  ; since  only  in 
‘ Eeality  lies  the  essence  and  foundation  of  all  that  was  ever 
‘ fabled,  visioned,  sung,  spoken,  or  babbled  by  the  human 
‘ species  ; and  the  actual  Life  of  Man  includes  in  it  all  Revela- 
‘ tions,  true  and  false,  that  have  been,  are,  or  are  to  be.  Man  ! 
‘ I say  therefore,  reverence  thy  fellow-man.  He  too  issued  from 
‘ Above ; is  mystical  and  supernatural  (as  thou  namest  it)  : 
‘ this  know  thou  of  a truth.  Seeing  also  that  we  ourselves 
‘ are  of  so  high  Authorship,  is  not  that,  in  very  deed,  “the 
‘highest  Reverence,”  and  most  needful  for  us  : “Reverence 
‘ for  oneself  ? ” 

1 Fraser’s  Magazine,  Nos.  43,  44  (July  and  August). 


8 


COUNT  C AG L IOSTRO. 


e Thus,  to  my  view,  is  every  Life,  more  properly  is  every 
‘ Man  that  has  life  to  lead,  a small  strophe,  or  occasional  verse, 

£ composed  by  the  Supernal  Powers  ; and  published,  in  such 
‘ type  and  shape,  with  such  embellishments,  emblematic  head- 
‘ piece  and  tail-piece  as  thou  seest,  to  the  thinking  orunthink- 
‘ ing  universe.  Heroic  strophes  some  few  are  ; full  of  force  and 
‘ a sacred  fire,  so  that  to  latest  ages  the  hearts  of  those  that  read 
‘ therein  are  made  to  tingle  Jeremiads  others  seem  ; mere  weep- 
‘ ing  laments,  harmonious  or  disharmonious  Remonstrances 
‘against  Destiny ; whereat  we  too  may  sometimes  profitably 
‘ weep.  Again,  have  we  not  flesh-and-blood  strophes  of  the  idyl- 
‘ lie  sort, — though  in  these  days  rarely,  owing  to  Poor-Laws, 

‘ Game-Laws,  Population-Theories  and  the  like  ! Farther,  of 
‘ the  comic  laughter-loving  sort ; yet  ever  with  an  unfathom- 
‘ able  earnestness,  as  is  fit,  lying  underneath  : for,  bethink  thee, 

‘ Avhat  is  the  mirthfullest  grinning  face  of  any  Grimaldi,  but 
‘ a transitory  mash,  behind  which  quite  otherwise  grins — the 
1 most  indubitable  death’s-head  ! However,  I say  farther,  there 
‘ are  strophes  of  the  pastoral  sort  (as  in  Ettrick,  Afghanistan, 
£ and  elsewhere) ; of  the  farcic-tragic,  melodramatic,  of  all 
‘ named  and  a thousand  unnamable  sorts  there  are  poetic 
‘ strophes,  written,  as  was  said,  in  Heaven,  printed  on  Earth, 
‘ and  published  (bound  in  woollen  cloth,  or  clothes)  for  the  use 
‘ of  the  studious.  Finally,  a small  number  seem  utter  Pas- 
‘ quils,  mere  ribald  libels  on  Humanity  : these  too,  however, 
‘ are  at  times  worth  reading. 

‘ In  this  wise,’  continues  our  too  obscure  friend,  £ out  of  all 
‘ imaginable  elements,  awakening  all  imaginable  moods  of 
‘ heart  and  soul,  “ barbarous  enough  to  excite,  tender  enough 
‘ to  assuage,”  ever  contradictory  yet  ever  coalescing,  is  that 
‘ mighty  world-old  Rhapsodia  of  Existence  page  after  page 
‘ (generation  after  generation),  and  chapter  (or  epoch)  af- 
1 ter  chapter,  poetically  put  together ! This  is  what  some 
‘ one  names  “the  grand  sacred  Epos,  or  Bible  of  "World-His- 
‘ tory  ; infinite  in  meaning  as  the  Divine  Mind  it  emblems  ; 
‘ wherein  he  is  wise  that  can  read  here  a line  and  there  a 
‘ line.” 

‘ Remark  too,  under  another  aspeci,  whether  it  is  not  in 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTBO. 


9 


* this  same  Bible  of  World-History  that  all  men,  in  all  times, 
‘ with  or  without  clear  consciousness,  hare  been  unwearied  to 
£ read,  what  we  may  cal]  read  ; and  again  to  write,  or  rather 
‘ to  be  written!  What  is  all  History,  and  all  Poesy,  but  a 
‘ deciphering  somewhat  thereof,  out  of  that  mystic  heaven- 
‘ written  Sanscrit ; and  rendering  it  into  the  speech  of  men  ? 
1 Know  thyself,  value  thyself,  is  a moralist’s  commandment 
‘ (which  I only  half  approve  of)  ; but  Know  others,  value 
‘ others,  is  the  hest  of  Nature  herself.  Or  again,  Work  while 
‘ it  is  called  To-day  : is  not  that  also  the  irreversible  law  of 
‘ being  for  mortal  man  ? And  now,  what  is  all  working,  what 
‘ is  all  knowing,  but  a faint  interpreting  and  a faint  showing- 
‘ forth  of  that  same  Mystery  of  Life,  which  ever  remains  in- 
‘ finite, — heaven-written  mystic  Sanscrit  ? View  it  as  we  will, 
‘ to  him  that  lives,  Life  is  a divine  matter  ; felt  to  be  of  quite 
‘ sacred  significance.  Consider  the  wretchedest  “ straddling 
‘ biped  that  wears  breeches  ” of  tliy  acquaintance ; into  whose 
‘ wool-head,  Thought,  as  thou  rashly  supposes!,  never  entered  ; 
‘ who,  in  froth-element  of  business,  pleasure,  or  what  else  he 
‘ names  it,  walks  forever  in  a vain  show  ; asking  not  Whence, 
‘ or  Why,  or  Whither  ; looking  up  to  the  Heaven  above  as  if 
‘ some  upholsterer  had  made  it,  and  down  to  the  Hell  beneath 

* as  if  he  had  neither  part  nor  lot  there  : yet  tell  me,  does  not 
‘ he  too,  over  and  above  his  five  finite  senses,  acknowledge 
‘ some  sixth  infinite  sense,  were  it  only  that  of  Vanity  ? For, 
‘ sate  him  in  the  other  five  as  you  may,  will  this  sixth  sense 
‘ leave  him  rest  ? Does  he  not  rise  early  and  sit  late,  and 
‘ study  impromptus  and  (in  constitutional  countries)  parlia- 
‘ mentary  motions,  and  bursts  of  eloquence,  and  gird  himself 
‘ in  whalebone,  and  pad  himself  and  perk  himself,  and. in  all 
‘ ways  painfully  take  heed  to  his  goings  ; feeling  (if  we  must 
1 admit  it)  that  an  altogether  infinite  endowment  has  been  in- 
‘ trusted  him  also,  namely,  a Life  to  lead  ? Thus  does  he  too, 
‘ with  his  whole  force,  in  his  own  way,  proclaim  that  the  world  - 
‘ old  Rhapsodia  of  Existence  is  divine,  and  an  inspired  Bible  ; 
‘ and,  himself  a wondrous  verse  therein  (be  it  heroic,  be  it 
‘ pasquillic),  study  with  his  whole  soul,  as  we  said,  both  to 

* read  and  to  be  written  ! 


10 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


‘ Here  also  I will  observe,  that  tlie  manner  in  which  men 
‘ read  this  same  Bible  is,  like  all  else,  proportionate  to  their 
c stage  of  culture,  to  the  circumstances  of  their  environment. 

‘ First,  and  among  the  earnest  Oriental  nations,  it  was  read 
£ wholly  like  a Sacred  Book  ; most  clearly  by  the  most  ear- 
‘ nest,  those  wondrous  Hebrew  Headers  ; whose  reading  ac- 
‘ cordingly  was  itself  sacred,  has  meaning  for  all  tribes  of 
c mortal  men ; since  ever,  to  the  latest  generation  of  the 
5 world,  a true  utterance  from  the  innermost  of  man’s  being 
£ will  speak  significantly  to  man.  But,  again,  in  how  differ- 
‘ ent  a style  was  that  other  Oriental  reading  of  the  Magi  ; of 
‘ Zerdusht,  or  whoever  it  was  that  first  so  opened  the  matter  ? 
‘ Gorgeous  semi-sensual  Grandeurs  and  Splendours  : on  in- 
‘ finite  darkness,  brightest-glowing  light  and  fire  ; — of  which, 
‘ all  defaced  by  Time,  and  turned  mostly  into  lies,  a quite  late 
c reflex,  in  those  Arabian  Tales  and  the  like,  still  leads  cap- 
; tive  every  heart.  Look,  thirdly,  at  the  earnest  West,  and 
4 that  Consecration  of  the  Flesh,  which  stept  forth  life-lusty, 
‘ radiant,  smiling-earnest,  in  immortal  grace,  from  under  the 
£ chisel  and  the  stylus  of  old  Greece.  Here  too  was  the  Infi- 
£ nite  intelligibly  proclaimed  as  infinite  : and  the  antique  man 
‘ walked  between  a Tartarus  and  an  Elysium,  his  brilliant 
£ Paphos-islet  of  Existence  embraced  by  boundless  oceans 
£ of  sadness  and'fateful  gloom. — Of  which  three  antique  man- 
£ ners  of  reading,  our  modern  manner,  you  will  remark,  has 
‘ been  little  more  than  imitation  : for  always,  indeed,  the 
‘ West  has  been  lifer  of  doers  than  of  speakers.  The  Hebrew 
£ manner  has  had  its  echo  in  our  Pulpits  and  choral  aisles  ; 
£ the  Ethnic  Greek  and  Arabian  in  numberless  mountains  of 
£ Fiction,  rhymed,  rhymeless,  published  by  subsciiption,  by 
£ puffery,  in  periodicals,  or  by  money  of  your  own  ( durch  eigne* 
£ Geld).  Till  now  at  last,  by  dint  of  iteration  and  reiteration 
‘ through  some  ten  centuries,  all  these  manners  have  grown 
£ obsolete,  wearisome,  meaningless  ; listened  to  only  as  the 
£ monotonous  moaning  wind,  while  there  is  nothing  else  to 
‘ listen  to  : — and  so  now,  wellnigh  in  total  oblivion  of  the  In- 
‘ finitude  of  Life  (except  what  small  unconscious  recognition 
‘ the  “ straddling  biped  ” above  argued  of  may  have),  we  wait, 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


11 


‘ iu  liope  and  patience,  for  some  fourth  manner  of  anew  oon- 
‘ vincingly  announcing  it,’ 

These  singular  sentences  from  the  JEsthetische  Springwurzel 
we  have  thought  right  to  translate  and  quote,  by  way  of 
proem  and  apology.  We  are  here  about  to  give  some  critical 
account  of  what  Herr  Sauerteig  would  call  a ‘ flesh-and-blood 
Poem  of  the  purest  Pasquil  sort ; ’ in  plain  words,  to  examine 
the  biography  of  the  most  perfect  scoundrel  that  in  these  lat- 
ter ages  has  marked  the  world’s  history.  Pasquils  too,  says 
Sauerteig,  ‘ are  at  times  worth  reading.’  Or  quitting  that 
mystic  dialect  of  his,  may  we  not  assert  in  our  own  way,  that 
the  history  of  an  Original  Man  is  always  worth  knowing  ? So 
magnificent  a thing  is  Will  incarnated  iu  a creature  of  like 
fashion  with  ourselves,  we  run  to  witness  all  manifestations 
thereof  : what  man  soever  has  marked  out  a peculiar  path  of 
life  for  himself,  let  it  lead  this  way  or  that  way,  and  success- 
fully travelled  the  same,  of  him  we  specially  inquire,  How 
he  travelled  ; What  befell  him  on  the  journey?  Though 
the  man  were  a knave  of  the  first  water,  this  hinders  not  the 
question,  How  he  managed  his  knavery  ? Nay  it  rather  en- 
courages such  question  ; for  nothing  properly  is  wholly  des- 
picable, at  once  detestable  and  forgetable,  but  your  half -knave, 
he  who  is  neither  true  nor  false  ; who  never  in  his  existence 
once  spoke  or  did  any  true  thing  (for  indeed  his  mind  lives  in 
twilight,  with  cat-vision,  incapable  of  discerning  truth)  ; and 
yet  had  not  the  manfulness  to  speak  or  act  any  decided  lie  ; 
but  spent  his  whole  life  in  plastering  together  the  True  and 
the  False,  and  therefrom  manufacturing  the  Plausible.  Such 
a one  our  Transcendentals  have  defined  as  a moral  Hybrid 
and  chimera  ; therefore,  under  the  moral  point  of  vie-w,  as  an 
Impossibility,  and  mere  deceptive  Nonentity,- — put  together  for 
commercial  purposes.  Of  'which  sort,  nevertheless,  how  many 
millions,  through  all  manner  of  gradations,  from  the  wielder 
of  kings’  sceptres  to  the  vender  of  brimstone  matches,  at  tea- 
tables,  council-tables,  behind  shop-counters,  in  priests’  pulpits, 
incessantly  and  everywhere,  do  now,  in  this  world  of  ours,  in 
this  Isle  of  ours,  offer  themselves  to  view ! From  such,  at 
least  from  this  intolerable  over-proportion  of  such,  might  the 


CO  TINT  CA  GLIOSTRO. 


12 

merciful  Heavens  one  day  deliver  us.  Glorious,  heroic,  fruit- 
ful for  his  own  Time,  and  for  all  Time  and  all  Eternity,  is  the 
constant  Speaker  and  Doer  of  Truth  ! If  no  such  again,  in 
the  present  generation,  is  to  be  vouchsafed  us,  let  us  have  at 
least  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  beholding  a decided  Liar. 
Wretched  mortal,  who  with  a single  eye  to  be  ‘ respectable  ’ 
forever  sittest  cobbling  together  two  Inconsistencies,  which 
stick  not  for  an  hour,  but  require  ever  new  gluten  and  labour, 

• — will  it,  by  no  length  of  experience,  no  bounty  of  Time  or 
Chance,  be  revealed  to  thee  that  Truth  is  of  Heaven,  and 
Falsehood  is  of  Hell  ; that  if  thou  cast  not  from  thee  the  one 
or  the  other,  thy  existence  is  wholly  an  Illusion  and  optical 
and  tactual  Phantasm  ; that  properly  thou  existest  not  at  all  ? 
Respectable  ! What,  in  the  Devil’s  name,  is  the  use  of  Re- 
spectability, with  never  so  many  gigs  and  silver  spoons,  if 
thou  inwardly  art  the  pitifullest  of  all  men  ? I would  thou 
wert  either  cold  or  hot. 

One  such  desirable  second-best,  perhaps  the  chief  of  all 
such,  we  have  here  found  in  the  Count  Alessandro  di  Cagli- 
ostro,  Pupil  of  the  Sage  Altkotas,  Foster-child  of  the  Scherif 
of  Mecca,  probable  Son  of  the  last  King  of  Trebisond  ; named 
also  Acharat,  an  unfortunate  child  of  Nature ; by  profession 
healer  of  diseases,  abolisher  of  wrinkles,  friend  of  the  poor 
and  impotent,  grand-master  of  the  Egyptian  Mason-lodge  of 
High  Science,  Spirit-summoner,  Gold-cook,  Grand  Cophta, 
Prophet,  Priest,  and  thaumaturgic  moralist  and  swindler ; 
really  a Liar  of  the  first  magnitude,  thorough-paced  in  all 
provinces  of  lying,  what  one  may  call  the  King  of  Liars. 
Mendez  Pinto,  Baron  Munchausen  and  others  are  celebrated 
in  this  art,  and  not  without  some  colour  of  justice  ; yet  must 
it  in  candour  remain  doubtful  whether  any  of  these  compara- 
tively wrere  much  more  than  liars  from  the  teeth  onwards  : a 
perfect  character  of  the  species  in  question,  who  lied  not  in 
word  only,  nor  in  act  and  word  only,  but  continually,  in 
thought,  word  and  act  ; and,  so  to  speak,  lived  wholly  in  an 
element  of  lying,  and  from  birth  to  death  did  nothing  but 
lie, — was  still  a desideratum.  Of  which  desideratum  Count 
Alessandro  offers,  we  say,  if  not  the  fulfilment,  perhaps  as 


COUNT  CA GLIOSTItO. 


13 


near  an  approach  to  it  as  the  limited  human  faculties  permit. 
Not  in  the  modern  ages,  probably  not  in  the  ancient  (though 
these  had  their  Autolycus,  their  Apollonius,  and  enoug'h  else), 
did  any  completer  figure  of  this  sort  issue  out  of  Chaos  and 
Old  Night : a sublime  hind  of  figure,  presenting  himself  with 
‘ the  air  of  calm  strength,’  of  sure  perfection  in  his  art ; whom 
the  heart  opens  itself  to,  with  wonder  and  a sort  of  welcome. 
‘ The  only  vice  I know,’  says  one,  ‘ is  Inconsistency.’  At 
lowest,  answer  we,  he  that  does  his  work  shall  have  his  work 
judged  of.  Indeed,  if  Satan  himself  has  in  these  days  be- 
come a poetic  hero,  why  should  not  Cagliostro,  for  some  short 
hour,  be  a prose  one  ? ‘ One  first  question,’  says  a great  Phil- 
osopher, ‘ I ask  of  erery  man  : Has  he  an  aim,  which  with  un- 
‘ divided  soul  he  follows,  and  adyances  towards?  Whether 
‘ his  aim  is  a right  one  or  a wrong  one,  forms  but  my  second 
‘ question.’  Here  then  is  a small  ‘ human  Pasquil,’  not  with- 
out poetic  interest. 

However,  be  this  as  it  may,  we  apprehend  the  eye  of  science 
at  least  cannot  view  him  with  indifference.  Doubtful,  false 
as  much  is  in  Cagliostro’s  manner  of  being,  of  this  there  is  no 
doubt,  that  starting  from  the  lowest  point  of  Fortune’s  wheel, 
he  rose  to  a height  universally  notable  ; that  without  external 
furtherance,  money,  beauty,  bravery,  almost  without  common 
sense,  or  any  discernible  worth  whatever,  he  sumptuously 
supported,  for  a long  course  of  3rears,  the  wants  and  digestion 
of  one  of  the  greediest  bodies,  and  one  of  the  greediest 
minds  ; outwardly  in  his  five  senses,  inwardly  in  his  ‘ sixth 
sense,  that  of  vanity,’  nothing  straitened.  Clear  enough  it 
is,  however  much  may  be  supposititious,  that  this  japanned 
Chariot,  rushing  through  the  world,  with  dust-clouds  and 
loud  noise,  at  the  speed  of  four  swift  horses,  and  topheavy 
with  luggage,  has  an  existence.  The  six  Beef-eaters  too,  that 
ride  prosperously  heralding  his  advent,  honourably  escorting, 
menially  waiting  on  him,  are  they  not  realities?  Ever  must 
the  purse  open,  paying  turnpikes,  tavern-bills,  drink-moneys, 
and  the  thousandfold  tear  and  wear  of  such  a team  ; yet  ever, 
like  a korn-of-plenty,  does  it  pour  ; and  after  brief  rest,  the 
chariot  ceases  not  to  roll.  Whereupon  rather  pressingly 


14 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


arises  the  scientific  question  : How  ? "Within  that  wonderful 
machinery,  of  horses,  wrheels,  top-luggage,  beaf-eaters,  sits 
only  a gross,  thickset  Individual,  evincing  dulness  enough; 
and  by  his  side  a Seraphina,  with  a look  of  doubtful  reputa- 
tion : how  comes  it  that  means  still  meet  ends,  that  the  whole 
Engine,  like  a steam-coach  wanting  fuel,  does  not  stagnate, 
go  silent,  and  fall  to  pieces  in  the  ditch  ? Such  question  did 
the  scientific  curiosity  of  the  present  winter  often  put ; and 
for  many  a day  in  vain. 

Neither,  indeed,  as  Book-readers  know,  was  he  peculiar 
herein.  The  great  Schiller,  for  example,  struck  both  with 
the  poetic  and  the  scientific  phases  of  the  matter,  admitted 
the  influences  of  the  former  to  shape  themselves  anew  within 
him  ; and  strove  with  his  usual  impetuosity  to  burst  (since 
unlocking  was  impossible)  the  secrets  of  the  latter  : and  so 
his  unfinished  Novel,  the  Geisterseher,  saw  the  light.  Still 
more  renowned  is  Goethe's  Drama  of  the  Gross-Kophla  ; 
which,  as  himself  informs  us,  delivered  him  from  a state  of 
mind  that  had  become  alarming  to  certain  friends  ; so  deep 
was  the  hold  this  business,  at  one  of  its  epochs,  had  taken  of 
him.  A dramatic  Fiction,  that  of  his,  based  on  the  strictest 
possible  historical  study  and  inquiiy  ; wherein  perhaps  the 
faithfullest  image  of  the  historical  Fact,  as  yet  extant  in  any 
shape,  lies  in  artistic  miniature  curiously  unfolded.  Nay 
mere  Newspaper-readers,  of  a certain  age,  can  bethink  them 
of  our  Eondon  Egyptian  Lodges  of  High  Science  ; of  the 
Countess  Seraphima's  dazzling  jewelleries,  nocturnal  brillian- 
cies, sibjdlic  ministrations  and  revelations  ; of  Miss  Fry  and 
Milord  Scott,  and  Messrs.  Priddle  and  the  other  shark 
bailiffs ; and  Lord  Mansfield’s  judgment-seat ; the  Comte 
d’Adhemar,  the  Diamond  Necklace,  and  Lord  George  Gordon. 
For  Cagliostro,  hovering  through  unknown  space,  twice  (per- 
haps thrice)  lighted  on  our  London,  and  did  business  in  the 
great  chaos  there. 

Unparalleled  Cagliostro  ! Looking  at  thy  so  attractively 
decorated  private  theatre,  wherein  thou  actedst  and  livedst, 
what  hand  but  itches  to  draw  aside  thy  curtain  ; over-haul 
thy  pasteboards,  paint-pots,  paper-mantles,  stage-lamps,  and 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


15 


turning  the  whole  inside  out,  find  thee  in  the  middle  there- 
of ! For  there  of  a truth  wert  thou  : though  the  rest  was 
all  foam  and  sham,  there  sattest  thou,  as  large  as  life,  and  as 
esurient ; warring  against  the  world,  and  indeed  conquering 
the  world,  for  it  remained  thy  tributary,  and  yielded  daily  ra- 
tions. Innumerable  Sheriff’ s-officers,  Exempts,  Sbirri,  Algua- 
zils,  of  every  European  climate,  were  prowling  on  thy  traces, 
their  intents  hostile  enough  ; thyself  wert  single  against  them 
all  ; in  the  whole  earth  thou  hadst  no  friend.  What  say  we, 
in  the  whole  earth  ? In  the  whole  universe  thou  hadst  no 
friend  ! Heaven  knew  nothing  of  thee  ; could  in  charity  know 
nothing  of  thee ; and  as  for  Beelzebub,  his  friendship,  it  is  as- 
certained, cannot  count  for  much. 

But  to  proceed  with  business.  The  present  inquirer,  in 
obstinate  investigation  of  a phenomenon  so  noteworthy,  has 
searched  through  the  whole  not  inconsiderable  circle  which 
his  tether  (of  circumstances,  geographical  position,  trade, 
health,  extent  of  money-capital)  enables  him  to  describe  : and, 
sad  to  say,  with  the  most  imperfect  results.  He  has  read 
Books  in  various  languages  and  jargons  : feared  not  to  soil 
his  fingers,  hunting  through  ancient  dusty  Magazines,  to 
sicken  his  heart  in  any  labyrinth  of  iniquity  and  imbecility  ; 
nay  he  had  not  grudged  to  dive  even  into  the  infectious 
Memoires  de  Casanova,  fora  hint  or  two, — could  he  have  found 
that  work,  which,  however,  most  British  Librarians  make  a 
point  of  denying  that  they  possess.  A painful  search,  as 
through  some  spiritual  pest-house  ; and  then  with  such  issue  ! 
The  quantity  of  discoverable  Printing  about  Cagliostro  (so 
much  being  burnt)  is  now  not  great  ; nevertheless  in  frightful 
proportion  to  the  quantity  of  information  given.  Except  vague 
Newspaper  rumours  and  surmises,  the  things  found  written  of 
this  Quack  are  little  more  than  temporary  Manifestos,  by  him- 
self, by  gulled  or  gulling  disciples  of  his  : not  true  therefore  ; 
at  best  only  certain  fractions  of  what  he  wished  or  expected 
the  blinder  Public  to  reckon  true  ; misty,  embroiled,  for  most 
part  highly  stupid  ; perplexing,  even  provoking ; which  can 
only  be  believed — to  be,  under  such  and  such  conditions,  Lies. 
Of  this  sort  emphatically  is  the  English  ‘ Life  of  the  Count 


16 


COUNT  CA GLIOSTIIO. 


(Jaglioai.ro,  price  three  shillings  and  sixpence  : ’ a Book  indeed 
which  one  might  hold  (so  fatuous,  inane  is  itj  to  he  some 
mere  dream-vision  and  unreal  eidolon,  did  it  not  now  stand 
palpably  there,  as  £ Sold  by  T.  Hookham,  Bond  Street,  1787  ; ’ 
and  bear  to  be  handled,  spurned  at  and  torn  into  pipe-matches. 
Some  human  creature  doubtless  was  at  the  writing  of  it ; but 
of  what  kind,  country,  trade,  character  or  gender,  you  will  in 
vain  strive  to  fancy.  Of  like  fabulous  stamp  are  the  Memoires 
pour  le  Comte  cle  Cagliostro,  emitted,  with  Requete  d joindre, 
from  the  Bastille,  during  that  sorrowful  business  of  the  Dia- 
mond Necklace,  in  1786  ; no  less  the  Lettre  du  Comte  de  Cag- 
liostro au  Peuple  Anglais,  which  followed  shortly  after,  at  Lon- 
don ; from  which  two  indeed,  that  fatuous  inexplicable 
English  Life  has  perhaps  been  mainly  manufactured.  Next 
come  the  Memoires  authentique s pour  servir  d VHistoire  du 
Comte  de  Cagliostro,  twice  printed  in  the  same  year  1786,  at 
Strasburg  and  at  Paris  ; a swaggering,  lascivious  Novellette, 
without  talent,  without  truth  or  worth,  happily  of  small  size. 
So  fares  it  with  us  : alas,  all  this  is  but  the  outside  decorations 
of  the  private-theatre,  or  the  sounding  of  catcalls  and  applauses 
from  the  stupid  audience  ; nowise  the  interior  bare  walls  and 
dress-room  which  we  wanted  to  see  ! Almost  our  sole  even 
half-genuine  documents  are  a small  barren  Pamphlet,  Cagli- 
ostro demasque  d Varsovie,  en  1780  ; and  a small  barren  Vol- 
ume purporting  to  be  his  Life,  written  at  Borne,  of  which 
latter  we  have  a French  version,  dated  1791.  It  is  on  this 
Vie  de  Joseph  Balsamo,  connu  sous  le  Xom  de  Comte  Cagliostro, 
that  our  main  dependence  must  be  placed ; of  which  Work, 
meanwhile,  whether  it  is  wholly  or  only  half-genuine,  the 
reader  may  judge  by  one  fact : that  it  comes  to  us  through 
the  medium  of  the  Boman  Inquisition,  and  the  proofs  to  sub- 
stantiate it  lie  in  the  Holy  Office  there.  Alas,  this  reporting 
Familiar  of  the  Inquisition  was  too  probably  something  of  a 
Liar  ; and  he  reports  lying  Confessions  of  one  who  was  not 
so  much  a Liar  as  a Lie  ! In  such  enigmatic  duskiness,  and 
thrice-folded  involution,  after  all  inquiries,  does  the  matter 
yet  hang. 

Nevertheless,  by  dint  of  meditation  and  comparison,  light- 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


17 


points  that  stand  fixed,  and  abide  scrutiny,  do  here  and  there 
disclose  themselves  ; diffusing  a fainter  light  over  what  other- 
wise were  dark,  so  that  it  is  no  longer  invisible,  but  only  dim. 
Nay  after  all,  is  there  not  in  this  same  uncertainty  a kind  of 
fitness,  of  poetic  congruity  ? Much  that  would  offend  the  eye 
stands  discreetly  lapped  in  shade.  Here  too  Destiny  has 
cared  for  her  favourite  : that  a powder-nimbus  of  astonish- 
ment, mystification  and  uncertainty  should  still  encircle  the 
Quack  of  Quacks,  is  right  and  suitable  ; such  was  by  Nature 
and  Art  his  chosen  uniform  and  environment.  Thus,  as  for- 
merly in  Life,  so  now  in  History,  it  is  in  huge  fluctuating 
smoke-whirlwinds,  partially  illumined  into  a most  brazen 
glory,  yet  united,  coalescing  with  the  region  of  everlasting 
Darkness,  in  miraculous  clear-obscure,  that  he  works  and 
rides. 

‘ Stern  Accuracy  in  inquiring,  bold  Imagination  in  expound- 
‘ ing  and  filling  up  ; these,’  says  friend  Sauerteig,  ‘ are  the 
‘ two  pinions  on  which  History  soars,’ — or  flutters  and  wabbles. 
To  which  two  pinions  let  us  and  the  readers  of  this  Magazine 
now  daringly  commit  ourselves.  Or  chiefly  indeed  to  the 
latter  pinion,  of  Imagination  ; which,  if  it  be  the  larger,  will 
indeed  make  an  unequal  flight  ! Meanwhile,  the  style  at  least 
shall  if  possible  be  equal  to  the  subject. 

Know,  then,  that  in  the  year  1748,  in  the  city  of  Palermo, 
in  Sicily,  the  family  of  Signor  Pietro  Balsamo,  a shopkeeper, 
were  exhilarated  by  the  birth  of  a Boy.  Such  occurrences 
have  now  become  so  frequent  that,  miraculous  as  they  are, 
they  occasion  little  astonishment  : old  Balsamo  for  a space, 
indeed,  laid  down  his  ellwands  and  unjust  balances  ; but  for 
the  rest,  met  the  event  with  equanimity.  Of  the  possetings, 
junketings,  gossipings,  and  other  ceremonial  rejoicings,  trans- 
acted according  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  for  welcome  to 
a New-comer,  not  the  faintest  tradition  has  survived  ; enough, 
that  the  small  New-comer,  hitherto  a mere  ethnic  or  heathen, 
is  in  a few  days  made  a Christian  of,  or  as  we  vulgarly  say, 
christened  ; by  the  name  Giuseppe.  A fat,  red,  globular 
kind  of  fellow,  not  under  nine  pounds  avoirdupois,  the  bold 
2 


13 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


Imagination  can  figure  him  to  be  : if  not  proofs,  there  are  in- 
dications that  sufficiently  betoken  as  much. 

Of  his  teething  and  swaddling  adventures,  of  his  scaldings, 
squallings,  pukings,  purgings,  the  stiictest  search  into  His- 
tory can  discover  nothing  ; not  so  much  as  the  epoch  when 
he  passed  out  of  long- clothes  stands  noted  in  the  fasti  of 
Sicily.  That  same  ‘ larger  pinion  ’ of  Imagination,  neverthe- 
less, conducts  him  from  his  native  blind-alley,  into  the  adja- 
cent street  Casaro  ; descries  him,  with  certain  contemporaries 
now  unknown,  essaying  himself  in  small  games  of  skill ; 
watching  what  phenomena,  of  carriage-transits,  dog-battles, 
street- music,  or  such  like,  the  neighbourhood  might  offer  (in- 
tent above  all  on  any  windfall  of  chance  provender)  ; now, 
with  incipient  scientific  spirit,  puddling  in  the  gutters  ; now, 
as  small  poet  (or  maker),  baking  mud-pies.  Thus  does  he 
tentatively  coast  along  the  outskirts  of  Existence,  till  once  he 
shall  be  strong  enough  to  land  and  make  a footing  there. 
Neither  does  it  seem  doubtful  that  with  the  earliest  exercise 
of  speech,  the  gifts  of  simulation  and  dissimulation  began  to 
manifest  themselves  ; Giuseppe,  or  Beppo  as  he  was  now 
called,  could  indeed  speak  the  truth,  —but  only  when  he  saw 
his  advantage  in  it.  Hungry  also,  as  above  hinted,  he  too, 
probably,  often  was  : a keen  faculty  of  digestion,  a meagre 
larder  within  doors ; these  two  circumstances,  so  frequently 
conjoined  in  this  world,  reduced  him  to  his  inventions.  As  to 
the  thing  called  Morals,  and  knowledge  of  Bight  and  Wrong, 
it  seems  pretty  certain  that  such  knowledge,  the  sad  fruit  of 
Man’s  Fall,  had  hi  great  part  been  spared  him  ; if  he  ever 
heard  the  commandment,  Thou  shalt  not  .deal,  he  most  prob- 
ably could  not  believe  in  it,  therefore  could  not  obey  it.  For 
the  rest,  though  of  quick  temper,  and  a ready  striker  where 
clear  prospect  of  victory  showed  itself,  we  fancy  him  vocifer- 
ous rather  than  bellicose,  not  prone  to  violence  where  strata- 
gem will  serve  ; almost  pacific,  indeed,  had  not  his  many 
wants  necessitated  him  to  many  conquests.  Above  all  things, 
a brazen  impudence  develops  itself  ; the  crowning  gift  of  one 
born  to  scoundrelism.  In  a word,  the  fat  thickset  Beppo,  as 
he  skulks  about  there,  plundering,  playing  dog’s-tricks,  with 


CO  UNT  CA  GL10STR0. 


19 


his  finger  in  every  mischief,  already  gains  character  ; shrill 
housewives  of  the  neighbourhood,  whose  sausages  he  has 
filched,  whose  weaker  sons  maltreated,  name  him  Beppo  Mal- 
detto,  and  indignantly  prophesy  that  he  will  be  hanged.  A 
prediction  which,  as  will  be  seen,  the  issue  has  signally  fal- 
sified. 

We  hinted  that  the  household  larder  was  in  a leanish 
state  ; in  fact,  the  outlook  of  the  Balsamo  family  was  getting 
troubled  ; old  Balsamo  had,  during  these  things,  been  called 
away  on  his  long  journey.  Poor  man  ! The  future  eminence 
and  pre-eminence  of  his  Beppo  he  foresaw  not,  or  what  a 
world’s-wonder  he  had  thoughtlessly  generated  ; as  indeed, 
which  of  us,  by  much  calculating,  can  sum  up  the  net-totaT 
(Utility,  or  Inutility)  of  any  his  most  indifferent  act, — a seed 
cast  into  the  seedfield  of  Time,  to  grow  there,  producing  fruits 
or  poisons,  forever  ! Meanwhile  Beppo  himself  gazed  heavily 
into  the  matter ; hung  his  thick  lips,  while  he  saw  his  mother 
weeping  ; and,  for  the  rest,  eating  what  fat  or  sweet  thing  he 
could  come  at,  let  Destiny  take  its  course. 

The  poor  widow,  ill-named  Felicitd,  spinning  out  a painful 
livelihood  by  such  means  as  only  the  poor  and  forsaken  kuow, 
could  not  but  many  times  cast  an  impatient  eye  on  her  brass- 
faced, voracious  Beppo  ; and  ask  him,  If  he  never  meant  to 
turn  himself  to  anything?  A maternal  uncle,  of  the  moneyed 
sort  (for  he  has  uncles  not  without  influence),  has  already 
placed  him  in  the  Seminary  of  Saint  Boch,  to  gain  some 
tincture  of  schooling  there  : but  Beppo  feels  himself  mis- 
placed in  that  sphere  ; 1 more  than  once  runs  away ; ’ is 
flogged,  snubbed,  tyrannically  checked  on  all  sides  ; and 
finally,  with  such  slender  stock  of  schooling  as  had  pleased 
to  offer  itself,  returns  to  the  street.  The  widow,  as  we  said, 
urges  him,  the  uncles  urge  : Beppo,  wilt  thou  never  turn 
thyself  to  anything  ? Beppo,  with  such  speculative  faculty, 
from  such  low  watch-tower,  as  he  commands,  is  in  truth, 
being  forced  to  it,  from  time  to  time,  looking  abroad  into  the 
world  ; surveying  the  conditions  of  mankind,  therewith  con- 
trasting his  own  wishes  and  capabilities.  Mas,  his  wishes 
are  manifold  ; a most  hot  Hunger  (in  all  kinds),  as  above 


20 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


hinted  ; but  on  the  other  hand,  his  leading  capability  seemed 
only  the  Power  to  Eat.  What  profession,  or  condition,  then  ? 
Choose  ; for  it  is  time.  Of  all  the  terrestrial  professions,  that 
of  Gentleman,  it  seemed  to  Beppo,  had,  under  these  circum- 
stances, been  most  suited  to  his  feelings : but  then  the  outfit  ? 
the  apprentice-fee  ? Failing  which,  he,  with  perhaps  as 
much  sagacity  as  one  could  expect,  decides  for  the  Eccle- 
siastical. 

Behold  him  then,  once  more  by  the  uncle’s  management, 
journeying,  a chubby  brass-faced  boy  of  thirteen,  beside  the 
Keverend  Father-General  of  the  Benfratelli,  to  their  neigh- 
bouring Convent  of  Cartegirone,  with  intent  to  enter  himself 
novice  there.  He  has  donned  the  no  vice -habit  ; is  ‘ intrusted 
to  the  keeping  of  the  Convent- Apothecary,’  on  whose  galli- 
pots and  crucibles  he  looks  round  with  wonder.  Were  it  by 
accident  that  he  found  himself  Apothecary’s  Famulus,  were 
it  by  choice  of  his  own — nay  was  it  not,  iu  either  case,  by 
design  of  Destiny,  intent  on  perfecting  her  work  ? — enough, 
in  this  Cartegirone  Laboratory  there  awaited  him,  though  as 
yet  he  knew  it  not,  life  guidance  and  determination  ; the 
great  want  of  every  genius,  even  of  the  scoundrel-genius. 
He  himself  confesses  that  he  here  learned  some  (or,  as  he 
calls  it,  the)  ‘principles  of  chemistry  and  medicine.’  Natural 
enough : new  books  of  the  Chemists  lay  here,  old  books  of 
the  Alchemists  ; distillations,  sublimations  visibly  went  on  ; 
discussions  there  were,  oral  and  written,  of  gold-making, 
salve-making,  treasure-digging,  divining-rods,  projection,  and 
the  alcahest : besides,  had  he  not  among  his  fingers  calxes, 
acids,  Leyden-jars?  Some  first  elements  of  medico-chemical 
conjurorship,  so  far  as  phosphorescent  mixtures,  aqua-toffana, 
ipecacuanha,  cantharides  tincture,  and  such  like  would  go, 
were  now  attainable  ; sufficient  when  the  hour  came,  to  set  up 
any  average  Quack,  much  more  the  Quack  of  Quacks.  It  is 
here,  in  this  unpromising  environment,  that  the  seeds  thera- 
peutic, thaumaturgic,  of  the  Grand  Cophta’s  stupendous 
workings  and  renown  were  sown. 

Meanwhile,  as  observed,  the  environment  looked  unprom- 
ising enough.  Beppo  with  his  two  endowments,  of  Hunger 


COUNT  CAGL10STR0. 


21 


and  of  Power  to  Eat,  had  made  the  best  choice  he  could  ; 
yet,  as  it  soon  proved,  a rash  and  disappointing  one.  To  his 
astonishment,  he  finds  that  even  here  he  ‘ is*in  a conditional 
world,’  and,  if  he  will  employ  his  capability  of  eating  or  en- 
joying, must  first,  in  some  measure,  work  and  suffer.  Con- 
tention enough  hereupon  : but  now  dimly  arises,  or  repro- 
duces itself,  the  question,  Whether  there  were  not  a shorter 
road,  that  of  stealing  ? Stealing — under  wdiich,  genetically 
taken,  you  may  include  the  whole  art  of  scoundrelism  ; for 
what  is  Lying  itself  but  a theft  of  my  belief? — stealing,  we 
say,  is  properly  the  North-West  Passage  to  Enjoyment:  w'hile 
common  Navigators  sail  painfully  along  torrid  shores,  labo- 
riously doubling  this  or  the  other  Cape  of  Hope,  your  adroit 
Thief-Parry,  drawn  on  smooth  dog-sledges,  is  already  there 
and  back  again.  The  misfortune  is,  that  stealing  requires  a 
talent ; and  failure  in  that  North-West  voyage  is  more  fatal 
than  in  any  other.  We  hear  that  Beppo  was  ‘often  pun- 
ished painful  experiences  of  the  fate  of  genius  ; for  all 
genius,  by  its  nature,  comes  to  disturb  somebody  in  his  ease, 
and  your  thief-genius  more  so  than  most ! 

Readers  can  now  fancy  the  sensitive  skin  of  Beppo  morti- 
fied with  prickly  cilices,  w^ealed  by  knotted  thongs  ; his  soul 
afflicted  by  vigils  and  forced  fasts  ; no  eye  turned  kindly  on 
him  ; everywhere  the  bent  of  his  genius  rudely  contravened. 
However,  it  is  the  first  property  of  geni.us  to  grow  in  spite  of 
contradiction,  and  even  by  means  thereof  ; — as  the  vital  germ 
pushes  itself  through  the  dull  soil,  and  lives  by  what  strove 
to  bury  it ! Beppo,  waxing  into  strength  of  bone  and  char- 
acter, sets  his  face  stiffly  against  persecution,  and  is  not  a 
whit  disheartened.  On  such  chastisements  and  chastisers  he 
can  look  with  a certain  genial  disdain.  Beyond  convent-walls, 
with  their  sour  stupid  shavelings,  lies  Palermo,  lies  the  world  ; 
here  too  is  he,  still  alive, — though  worse  off  than  he  wished  ; 
and  feels  that  the  wTorld  is  his  oyster,  which  he  (by  chemical 
or  other  means)  will  one  day  open.  Nay,  we  find  there  is  a 
touch  of  grim  Humour  unfolds  itself  in  the  youth  ; the  surest 
sign,  as  is  often  said,  of  a character  naturally  great.  Witness, 
for  example,  how  he  acts  on  this  to  his  ardent  temperament 


22 


COUNT  C A GLIOS Tit 0. 


so  trying  occasion.  While  the  monks  sit  at  meat,  the  impetu- 
ous voracious  Beppo  (that  stupid  Inquisition-Biographer  re- 
cords it  as  a thing  of  course)  is  set  not  to  eat  with  them,  not 
to  pick  up  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  them,  but  to  stand  ‘ read- 
ing the  Martyrology  ’ for  their  pastime  ! The  brave  adjusts 
himself  to  the  inevitable.  Beppo  reads  that  dullest  Martyr- 
ology of  theirs  ; but  reads  out  of  it  not  what  is  printed  there, 
but  what  his  own  vivid  brain  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  de- 
vises : instead  of  the  names  of  Saints,  all  heartily  indifferent  to 
him,  he  reads  out  the  names  of  the  most  notable  Palermo  ‘un- 
fortunate-females,’ now  beginning  to  interest  him  a little. 
What  a * deep  world-irony/  as  the  Germans  call  it,  lies  here  ! 
The  Monks,  of  course,  felled  him  to  the  earth,  and  flayed  him 
with  scourges  ; but  what  did  it  avail  ? This  only  became  ap- 
parent, to  himself  and  them,  that  he  had  now  outgrown  their 
monk-discipline  ; as  the  psyche  does  its  chrysalis-shell,  and 
bursts  it.  Giuseppe  Balsamo  bids  farewell  to  Cartegirone  for- 
ever and  a day. 

So  now,  by  consent  or  not  of  the  ghostly  BenfrateUi  (Friars 
of  Mercy,  as  they  were  named !),  our  Beppo  has  again  re- 
turned to  the  maternal  uncle  at  Palermo.  The  uncle  natur- 
ally asked  him,  WTiat  he  next  meant  to  do  ? Beppo,  after 
stammering  and  hesitating  for  some  length  of  weeks,  makes 
answer  : Try  Painting.  W ell  and  good  ! So  Beppo  gets  him 
colours,  brushes,  fit  tackle,  and  addicts  himself  for  some 
space  of  time  to  the  study  of  what  is  innocently  called  Design. 
Alas,  if  we  consider  Beppo’s  great  Hunger,  now  that  new 
senses  were  unfolding  in  him,  how  inadequate  are  the  exigu- 
ous resources  of  Design  ; how  necessary  to  attempt  quite  an- 
other deeper  species  of  Design,  of  Designs  ! It  is  true,  he 
lives  with  his  uncle,  has  culinary  meat ; but  where  is  the 
pocket-money  for  other  costlier  sorts  of  meats  to  come  from  ? 
As  the  Kaiser  Joseph  was  wont  to  say : From  my  head  alone 
(Be  ma  tete  seule)  ! 

The  Roman  Biographer,  though  a most  wooden  man,  has 
incidentally  thrown  some  light  on  Beppo’s  position  at  this 
juncture : both  on  his  wants  and  his  resources.  As  to  the 
first,  it  appears  (using  the  wooden  man’s  phraseology)  that  he 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


23 


kept  the  ‘ worst  company,’  led  tlie  ‘loosest  life  was  hand-in- 
glove  with  all  the  swindlers,  gamblers,  idle  apprentices,  un- 
fortunate-females,  of  Palermo  : in  the  study  and  practice  of 
Scoundrelism  diligent  beyond  most.  The  genius  which  has 
burst  asunder  convent-walls,  and  other  rubbish  of  impedi- 
ments, now  flames  upward  towards  its  mature  splendour. 
Wheresoever  a stroke  of  mischief  is  to  be  done,  a slush  of  so- 
called  vicious  enjoyment  to  be  swallowed,  there  with  hand  and 
throat  is  Beppo  Balsamo  seen.  He  will  be  a Master,  one  day, 
in  his  profession.  Not  indeed  that  he  has  yet  quitted  Paint- 
ing, or  even  purposes  so  much : for  the  present,  it  is  useful, 
indispensable,  as  a stalking-horse  to  the  maternal  uncle  and 
neighbours  ; nay  to  himself, — for  with  all  the  ebullient  im- 
pulses of  scoundrel-genius  restlessly  seething  in  him  irrepres- 
sibly bursting  through,  he  has  the  noble  unconsciousness  of 
genius ; guesses  not,  dare  not  guess,  that  he  is  a born  scoun- 
drel, much  less  a born  world-scoundrel. 

But  as  for  the  other  question,  of  his  resources,  these  we 
perceive  were  several-fold,  and  continually  extending.  Not 
to  mention  any  pictorial  exiguities,  which  indeed  existed 
chiefly  in  expectance, — there  had  almost  accidentally  arisen  for 
him,  in  the  first  place,  the  resource  of  Pandering.  Pie  has  a 
fair  cousin  living  in  the  house  with  him,  and  she  again  has  a 
lover  ; Beppo  stations  himself  as  go-between  : delivers  letters  ; 
fails  not  to  drop  hints  that  a lady,  to  be  won  or  kept,  must 
be  generously  treated  ; that  such  and  such  a pair  of  earrings, 
watch,  necklace,  or  even  sum  of  money  would  work  wonders  ; 
which  valuables,  adds  the  wooden  Roman  Biographer,  ‘ he 
then  appropriated  furtively.’  Like  enough  ! Next,  however, 
as  another  more  lasting  resource,  he  forges  ; at  first  in  a 
small  way,  and  trying  his  apprentice-hand  ; tickets  for  the 
theatre,  and  such  trifles.  Erelong,  however,  we  see  him  fly 
at  higher  quarry  ; by  practice  he  has  acquired  perfection  in 
the  great  art  of  counterfeiting  hands  ; and  will  exercise  it  on 
the  large  or  on  the  narrow  scale,  for  a consideration.  Among 
his  relatives  is  a Notary,  with  whom  he  can  insinuate  himself  ; 
for  purpose  of  study,  or  even  of  practice.  In  the  presses  of 
this  Notary  lies  a Will,  which  Beppo  contrives  to  come  at,  and 


24 


COUNT  CAGL10STR0. 


falsify  ‘for  the  benefit  of  a certain  Religious  House.’  Much 
good  may  it  do  them  ! Many  years  afterwards  the  fraud  was 
detected  ; but  Beppo’s  benefit  in  it  was  spent  and  safe  long 
before. 

Thus  again  the  stolid  Biographer  expresses  horror  or 
wonder  that  he  should  have  forged  leave-of-absence  for  a 
monk,  ‘counterfeiting  the  signature  of  the  Superior.’  Why 
not?  A forger  must  forge  what  is  wanted  of  him  ; the  Lion 
truly  preys  not  on  mice  ; yet  shall  he  refuse  such  if  they  jump 
into  his  mouth  ? Enough,  the  indefatigable  Beppo  has  here 
opened  a quite  boundless  mine  ; wherein  through  his  whole 
life  he  will,  as  occasion  calls,  dig,  at  his  convenience.  Finally, 
he  can  predict  fortunes  and  show  visions, — by  phosphorus 
and  legerdemain.  This,  however,  only  as  a dilettanteism ; 
to  take  up  the  earnest  profession  of  Magician  does  not  yet 
enter  into  his  views.  Thus  perfecting  himself  in  all  branches 
of  his  art,  does  our  Balsamo  live  and  grow.  Stupid,  pudding- 
faced as  he  looks  and  is,  there  is  a vulpine  astucity  in  him  ; 
and  then  a wholeness,  a heartiness,  a kind  of  blubbery  impet- 
uosity, an  oiliness  so  plausible-looking  : give  him  only  length 
of  life,  he  will  rise  to  the  top  of  his  profession. 

Consistent  enough  with  such  blubbery  impetuosity  in 
Beppo  is  another  fact  we  find  recorded  of  him,  that  at  this 
time  he  was  found  ‘ in  most  brawls,’  whether  in  street  or 
tavern.  The  way  of  his  business  led  him  into  liability  to 
such  : neither  as  yet  had  he  learned  prudence  by  age.  Of 
choleric  temper,  with  all  his  obesity  ; a square-built,  burly, 
vociferous  fellow ; ever  ready  with  his  stroke  (if  victory 
seemed  sure)  ; nay,  at  bottom,  not  without  a certain  pig-like 
defensive-ferocity,  perhaps  even  something  more.  Thus, 
when  you  find  him  making  a point  to  attack,  if  possible,  ‘ all 
officers  of  justice,’  and  deforce  them  ; delivering  the  wretched 
from  their  talons  : was  not  this,  we  say,  a kind  of  dog-faith- 
fulness, and  public  spirit,  either  of  the  mastiff  or  of  the  cur 
species  ? Pex-haps  too  there  was  a touch  of  that  old  Humour 
and  ‘ world-irony  ’ in  it.  One  still  more  unquestionable  feat 
he  is  recorded  (we  fear,  on  imperfect  evidence)  to  have  done  : 
‘assassinated  a canon.’ 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


25 


Bemonstrances  from  growling  maternal  uncles  could  not 
fail ; threats,  disdains  from  ill-affected  neighbours  ; tears  from 
an  expostulating  widowed  mother  : these  he  shakes  from  him 
like  dewdrops  from  the  lion’s  mane.  Still  less  could  the 
Police  neglect  him  ; him  the  visibly  rising  Professor  of  Swin- 
dlery  ; the  swashbuckler,  to  boot,  and  deforcer  of  bailiffs : he 
has  often  been  captured,  haled  to  their  bar  ; yet  hitherto,  by 
defect  of  evidence,  by  good  luck,  intercession  of  friends,  been 
dismissed  wdth  admonition.  Two  things,  nevertheless,  might 
now  be  growing  clear  : first,  that  the  die  wyas  cast  with  Beppo, 
and  he  a scoundrel  for  life  ; second,  that  such  a mixed,  com- 
posite, crypto-scoundrel  life  could  not  endure,  but  must  unfold 
itself  into  a pure,  declared  one.  The  Tree  that  is  planted 
stands  not  still  ; must  pass  through  all  its  stages  and  phases, 
from  the  state  of  acorn  to  that  of  green  leafy  oak,  of  withered 
leafless  oak  ; to  the  state  of  felled  timber,  finally  to  that  of 
firewood  and  ashes.  Not  less  (though  less  visibly  to  dull 
eyes)  the  Act  that  is  done,  the  condition  that  has  realised  it- 
self ; above  all  things,  the  Man,  with  his  Fortunes,  that  has 
been  born.  Beppo,  everyway  in  vigorous  vitality,  cannot 
continue  half-painting  half-swindling  in  Palermo  ; must  de- 
velop himself  into  whole  swindler  ; and,  unless  hanged  there, 
seek  his  bread  elsewhere.  What  the  proximate  cause,  or  sig- 
nal, of  such  crisis  and  development  might  be,  no  man  could 
say  ; yet  most  men  would  have  confidently  guessed.  The 
Police.  Nevertheless  it  proved  otherwise  ; not  by  the  flam- 
ing sword  of  Justice,  but  by  the  rusty  dirk  of  a foolish  private 
individual,  is  Beppo  driven  forth. 

Walking  one  day  in  the  fields  (as  the  bold  historic  Imag- 
ination will  figure)  with  a certain  ninny  of  a ‘ Goldsmith 
named  Marano,’  as  they  pass  one  of  those  rock-chasms  fre- 
quent in  the  fair  Island  of  Sicily,  Beppo  begins,  in  his  oily, 
voluble  way,  to  hint,  That  treasures  often  lay  hid  ; that  a 
Treasure  lay  hid  there,  as  he  knew  by  some  pricking  of  his 
thumbs,  divining-rod,  or  other  talismanic  monition  : which 
Treasure  might,  by  aid  of  science,  courage,  secrecy  and  a 
small  judicious  advance  of  money,  be  fortunately  lifted.  The 
gudgeon  takes ; advances,  by  degrees,  to  the  length  of  ‘ sixty 


26 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


gold  Ounces ; ’ 1 sees  magic  circles  drawn  in  the  wane  or  in 
the  full  of  the  moon,  blue  (phosphorus)  flames  arise,  split 
twigs  auspiciously  quiver  ; and  at  length — demands  peremp- 
torily that  the  Treasure  be  dug.  A night  is  fixed  on  : the 
ninny  Goldsmith,  trembling  with  rapture  and  terror,  breaks 
ground ; digs,  with  thick  breath  and  cold  sweat,  fiercely 
down,  down,  Beppo  relieving  him  : the  work  advances  ; when, 
ah  ! at  a certain  stage  of  it  ( before  fruition)  hideous  yells 
arise,  a jingle  like  the  emptying  of  Birmingham  ; six  Devils 
pounce  upon  the  poor  sheep  Goldsmith,  and  beat  him  almost 
to  mutton  ; mercifully  sparing  Balsamo, — who  indeed  has 
himself  summoned  them  thither,  and  as  it  were  created  them 
(with  goatskins  and  burnt  cork).  Marano,  though  a ninny, 
now  knew  how  it  lay  ; and  furthermore  that  he  had  a stiletto. 
One  of  the  grand  drawbacks  of  swindler-genius  ! You  accom- 
plish the  Problem  ; and  then — the  Elementary  Quantities, 
Algebraic  Symbols  you  worked  on,  will  fly  in  your  face  ! 

Hearing  of  stilettos,  our  Algebraist  begins  to  look  around 
him,  and  view  his  empire  of  Palermo  in  the  concrete.  An 
empire  now  much  exhausted  ; much  infested  too  with  sor- 
rows of  all  kinds,  and  every  day  the  more  ; nigh  ruinous,*  in 
short  ; not  worth  being  stabbed  for.  There  is  a world  else- 
where. In  any  case,  the  young  Raven  has  now  shed  his  pens, 
and  got  fledged  for  flying.  Shall  he  not  spurn  the  whole 
from  him,  and  soar  off  ? Resolved,  performed ! Our  Beppo 
quits  Palermo  ; and,  as  it  proved,  on  a long  voyage : or,  as 
the  Inquisition-Biographer  has  it,  ‘lie  fled  from  Palermo,  and 
overran  the  whole  Earth.5 

Here  then  ends  the  First  Act  of  Count  Alessandro  Cagli- 
ostro’s  Life-drama.  Let  the  curtain  drop  ; and  hang  unrent, 
before  an  audience  of  mixed  feeling,  till  the  Fust  of  August. 

1 The  Sicilian  Ounce  ( Onza ) is  worth  about  ten  shillings  sterling. 


COUNT  CAGL10STB0. 


27 


FLIGHT  LAST 


Before  entering  on  tlie  second  Section  of  Count  Beppo’s 
History,  the  Editor  will  indulge  in  a philosophical  reflec- 
tion. 

This  Beppic  Hegira,  or  Flight  from  Palermo,  we  have 
now  arrived  at,  brings  us  down,  in  European  History,  to 
somewhere  about  the  epoch  of  the  Peace  of  Paris.  Old 
Feudal  Europe,  while  Beppo  flies  forth  into  the  whole  Earth, 
has  just  finished  the  last  of  her  ‘ tavern-brawls,’  or  wars  ; and 
lain  down  to  doze,  and  yawn,  and  disconsolately  wear  off  the 
headaches,  bruises,  nervous  prostration  and  flaccidity  con- 
sequent thereon  : for  the  brawl  has  been  a long  one.  Seven 
Years  long ; and  there  had  been  many  such,  begotten,  as  is 
usual,  of  intoxication  from  Pride  or  other  Devil's-drink,  and 
foul  humours  in  the  constitution.  Alas,  it  was  not  so  much 
a disconsolate  doze,  after  ebriety  and  quarrel,  that  poor  old 
Feudal  Europe  had  now  to  undergo,  and  then  on  awakening 
to  drink  anew,  and  quarrel  anew  : old  Feudal  Europe  has 
fallen  a-dozing  to  die  ! Her  next  awakening  will  be  with  no 
tavern-brawl,  at  the  King’s  Head  or  Prime  Minister  tavern  ; 
but  with  the  stern  Avatar  of  Democracy,  hymning  its  world- 
thrilling  birth-  and  battle-song  in  the  distant  West ; — there- 
from to  go  out  conquering  and  to  conquer,  till  it  have  made 
the  circuit  of  all  the  Earth,  and  old  dead  Feudal  Europe  is 
born  again  (after  infinite  pangs  !)  into  a new  Industrial  one. 
At  Beppo’s  Hegira,  as  wTe  said,  Europe  was  in  the  last  languor 
and  stertorous  fever-sleep  of  Dissolution ; alas,  with  us,  and 
with  our  sons  for  a generation  or  two,  it  is  almost  still  worse, 
— were  it  not  that  in  Birth-throes  there  is  ever  hope,  in  Death- 
throes  the  final  departure  of  hope. 

Now  the  philosophic  reflection  we  were  to  indulge  in,  was 
no  other  than  this,  most  germane  to  .our  subject : the  porten- 
tous extent  of  Quackery,  the  multitudinous  variety  of  Quacks 


2S 


COUNT  CAGLI0STRO. 


tliat,  along  with  our  Beppo,  and  under  him  each  in  his  de- 
gree, overran  all  Europe  during  that  same  period,  the  latter 
half  of  last  century.  It  was  the  very  age  of  impostors,  cut- 
purses,  swindlers,  double-goers,  enthusiasts,  ambiguous  per- 
sons ; quacks  simple,  quacks  compound  ; crack-brained,  or 
with  deceit  prepense  ; quacks  and  quackeries  of  all  colours 
and  kinds.  How  many  Mesmerists,  Magicians,  Cabalists, 
Swedenborgians,  Illuminati,  Crucified  Nuns,  and  Devils  of 
Loudun  ! To  which  the  Inquisition-Biographer  adds  Vam- 
pires, Sylphs,  Rosicrucians,  Freemasons,  and  an  Etcetera. 
Consider  your  Schropfers,  Cagliostros,  Casanovas,  Saint-Ger- 
mains,  Dr.  Grahams  ; the  Chevalier  d'Eon,  Psalmanazar, 
Abbe  Paris  and  the  Ghost  of  Cock-lane  ! As  if  Bedlam  had 
broken  loose  ; as  if  rather,  in  that  ‘ spiritual  Twelfth-hour  of 
the  night,’  the  everlasting  Pit  had  opened  itself,  and  from  its 
still  blacker  bosom  had  issued  Madness  and  all  manner  of 
shapeless  Misbirths,  to  masquerade  and  chatter  there. 

But,  indeed,  if  we  consider,  how  could  it  be  otherwise? 
In  that  stertorous  last  fever-sleep  of  our  European  world, 
must  not  Phantasms  enough,  born  of  the  Pit,  as  all  such 
are,  flit  past,  in  ghastly  masquerading  and  chattering?  A 
low  scarce-audible  moan  (in  Parliamentary  Petitions,  Meal- 
mobs,  Popish  Riots,  Treatises  on  Atheism)  struggles  from  the 
moribund  sleeper  ; frees  him  not  from  his  hellish  guests  and 
saturnalia  : Phantasms  these  ‘ of  a dying  brain.’  So  too, 
when  the  old  Roman  world,  the  measure  of  its  iniquities  be- 
ing full,  was  to  expire,  and  (in  still  bitterer  agonies)  be  born 
again,  had  they  not  Veneficse,  Mathematici,  Apolloniuses  with 
the  Golden  Thigh,  Apollonius’  Asses,  and  False  Christs  enough 
—before  a Redeemer  arose  ! 

For,  in  truth,  and  altogether  apart  from  such  half-figura- 
tive language,  Putrescence  is  not  more  naturally  the  scene 
of  unclean  creatures  in  the  world  physical,  than  Social  Decay 
is  of  quacks  in  the  world  moral.  Nay,  look  at  it  with  the 
eye  of  the  mere  Logician,  of  the  Political  Economist.  In 
such  periods  of  Social  Decay,  what  is  called  an  overflowing 
Population,  that  is  a Population  which,  under  the  old  Cap- 
tains of  Industry  (named  Higher  Classes,  Ricos  Hombres, 


COUNT  CAGL10STR0. 


29 


Aristocracies  and  tlie  like),  can  no  longer  find  work  and 
wages,  increases  the  number  of  Unprofessionals,  Lackalls, 
Social  Nondescripts ; with  appetite  of  utmost  keenness, 
which  there  is  no  known  method  of  satisfying.  Nay  more, 
and  perversely  enough,  ever  as  Population  augments,  your 
Captains  of  Industry  can  and  do  dwindle  more  and  more  into 
Captains  of  Idleness  ; whereby  the  more  and  more  overflow- 
ing Population  is  worse  and  worse  governed  (shown  what  to 
do,  for  that  is  the  only  government)  : thus  is  the  candle 
lighted  at  both  ends  ; and  the  number  of  social  Nondescripts 
increases  in  double-quick  ratio.  Whoso  is  alive,  it  is  said, 
£ must  live  ; ’ at  all  events,  will  live  ; a task  which  daily  gets 
harder,  reduces  to  stranger  shifts.  And  now  furthermore, 
with  general  economic  distress,  in  such  a Period,  there  is 
usually  conjoined  the  utmost  decay  of  moral  principle  : in- 
deed, so  universal  is  this  conjunction,  many  men"  have  seen  it 
to  be  a concatenation  and  causation  ; justly  enough,  except 
that  such  have  very  generally,  ever  since  a certain  religious- 
repentant  feeling  went  out  of  date,  committed  one  sore  mis- 
take : what  is  vulgarly  called  putting  the  cart  before  the 
horse.  Politico-economical  benefactor  of  the  species  ! de- 
ceive not  thyself  with  barren  sophisms : National  suffering 
is,  if  thou  wilt  understand  the  words,  verily  a ‘judgment  of 
God  ; ’ has  ever  been  preceded  by  national  crime.  ‘ Be  it 
here  once  more  maintained  before  the  world,’  cries  Sauer- 
teig,  in  one  of  his  Springwurzel,  ‘ that  temporal  Distress, 
‘ that  Misery  of  any  kind,  is  not  the  cause  of  Immorality,  but 
‘ the  effect  thereof  ! Among  individuals,  it  is  true,  so  wide 
‘ is  the  empire  of  Chance,  poverty  and  wealth  go  all  at  hap- 
‘ hazard  ; a St.  Paul  is  making  tents  at  Corinth,  while  a 
‘ Kaiser  Nero  fiddles,  in  ivory  palaces,  over  a burning  Rome. 
‘Nevertheless  here  too,  if  nowise  wealth  and  poverty,  yet 
‘well-being  and  ill-being,  even  in  the  temporal  economic 
‘ sense,  go  commonly  in  respective  partnership  with  Wisdom 
‘and  with  Folly  : no  man  can,  for  a length  of  time,  be  wholly 
‘wretched,  if  there  is  not  a disharmony  (a  folly  and  wicked- 
‘ness)  within  himself  ; neither  cau  the  richest  Croesus,  and 
‘ never  so  eupeptic  (for  he  too  has  his  indigestions,  and  dies 


30 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTliO. 


‘at  last  of  surfeit),  be  other  than  discontented,  perplexed, 
‘unhappy,  if  he  be  a Fool.’ — This  we  apprehend  is  true,  O 
Sauerteig,  yet  not  the  whole  truth : for  there  is  more  than 
day’s-work  and  day’s- wages  in  this  world  of  ours : which, 
as  thou  knowest,  is  itself  quite  other  than  a ‘ Workshop  and 
Fancy-Bazaar,’  is  also  a ‘ Mystic  Temple  and  Hall  of  Doom.’ 
Thus  we  have  heard  of  such  things  as  good  men  struggling 
■with  adversity,  and  offering  a spectacle  for  the  very  gods. — 
‘ But  with  a nation,’  continues  he,  ‘ where  the  multitude  of  the 
‘ chances  covers,  in  great  measure,  the  uncertainty  of  Chance, 
‘ it  may  be  said  to  hold  always  that  general  Suffering  is  the 
‘ fruit  of  general  Misbehaviour,  general  Dishonesty.  Con- 
‘ sider  it  well  ; had  all  men  stood  faithfully  to  their  posts, 
‘ the  Evil,  when  it  first  rose,  had  been  manfully  fronted,  and 
‘ abolished,  not  lazily  blinked,  and  left  to  grow,  with  the  foul 
‘sluggard’s  comfort:  “It  will  last  my  time.”  Thou  foul 
‘sluggard,  and  even  thief  (Faulenzer,  ja  Dieb)  ! For  art 
‘ thou  not  a thief,  to  pocket  thy  day’s-wages  (be  they  counted 
‘ in  groschen  or  in  gold  thousands)  for  this,  if  it  be  for  any- 
‘ thing,  for  watching  on  thy  special  watch-tower  that  God’s 
‘ City  (which  this  His  World  is,  where  His  childi'en  dwell) 
‘ suffer  no  damage  ; and,  all  the  while,  to  watch  only  that  thy 
‘ own  ease  be  not  invaded, — let  otherwise  hard  come  to  hard 
‘ as  it  will  and  can  ? Unhappy  ! It  will  last  thy  time  : thy 
‘ worthless  sham  of  an  existence,  wherein  nothing  but  the 
‘ Digestion  was  real,  will  have  evaporated  in  the  interim  ; it 
‘ will  last  thy  time  : but  will  it  last  thy  Eternity  ? Or  what 
‘ if  it  should  not  last  thy  time  (mark  that  also,  for  that  also 
‘ will  be  the  fate  of  some  such  lying  sluggard)  ; but  take  fire, 
* and  explode,  and  consume  thee  like  the  moth  ! ’ 

The  sum  of  the  matter,  in  any  case,  is,  that  national  Pov- 
erty and  national  Dishonesty  go  together  ; that  continually 
increasing  social  Nondescripts  get  ever  the  hungrier,  ever  the 
falser.  Now  say,  have  we  not  here  the  very  making  of  Quack- 
ery ; raw  material,  plastic-energy,  both  in  full  action?  Dis- 
honesty the  raw-material,  Hunger  the  plastic-energy : what 
will  not  the  two  realise?  Nay  observe  farther  how  Dishon- 
esty is  the  raw-material  not  of  Quacks  only,  but  also  in  great 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


31 


part  of  Dupes.  In  Goodness,  were  it  never  so  simple,  there 
is  the  surest  instinct  for  the  Good  ; the  uneasiest  unconquer- 
able repulsion  for  the  False  and  Bad.  The  very  Devil  Me- 
phistopheles  cannot  deceive  poor  guileless  Margaret : ‘ it 

stands  written  on  his  front  that  he  never  loved  a living  soul ! ’ 
The  like  too  has  many  a human  inferior  Quack  painfully  ex- 
perienced ; the  like  lies  in  store  for  our  hero  Beppo.  But  now 
with  such  abundant  raw-material  not  only  to  make  Quacks  of, 
but  to  feed  and  occupy  them  on,  if  the  plastic-energy  of  Hun- 
ger fail  not,  what  a world  shall  we  have  ! The  wonder  is  not 
that  the  eighteenth  century  had  very  numerous  Quacks,  but 
rather  that  they  were  not  innumerable. 

In  that  same  French  Revolution  alone,  which  burnt  up  so 
much,  what  unmeasured  masses  of  Quackism  were  set  lire  to  ; 
nay,  as  foul  mephitic  fire-damp  in  that  case,  were  made  to 
flame  in  a fierce,  sublime  splendour  ; coruscating,  even  illumi- 
nating ! The  Count  Saint-Germain,  some  twenty  years  later, 
had  found  a quite  new  element,  of  Fraternisation,  Sacred 
right  of  Insurrection,  Oratorship  of  the  Human  Species, 
wherefrom  to  body  himself  forth  quite  otherwise  : Schropfer 
needed  not  now,  as  Blackguard  undeterred,  have  solemnly 
shot  himself  in  the  Rosenthal ; might  have  solemnly  sacrificed 
himself,  as  Jacobin  half-heroic,  in  the  Place  de  la  Revolution. 
For  your  quack-genius  is  indeed  born,  but  also  made  ; cir- 
cumstances shape  him  or  stunt  him.  Beppo  Balsamo,  born 
British  in  these  new  days,  could  have  conjured  fewer  Spirits  ; 
yet  had  found  a living  and  glory,  as  Castlereagh  Spy,  Irish 
Associationist,  Blacking-Manufacturer,  Book-Publisher,  Able 
Editor.  Withal  too  the  reader  will  observe  that  Quacks,  in 
every  time,  are  of  two  sorts  : the  Declared  Quack  ; and  the 
Undeclared,  who,  if  you  question  him,  will  deny  stormfully, 
both  to  others  and  to  himself  ; of  which  two  quack-species  the 
proportions  vary  with  the  varying  capacity  of  the  age.  If 
Beppo’s  was  the  age  of  the  Declared,  therein,  after  all  French 
Revolutions,  we  will  grant,  lay  one  of  its  main  distinctions 
from  ours ; which  is  it  not  yet,  and  for  a generation  or  two, 
the  age  of  the  Undeclared  ? Alas,  almort  a still  more  detest- 
able age  ; — -yet  now  (by  God’s  grace),  with  Prophecy,  with 


32 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


irreversible  Enactment,  registered  in  Heaven’s  chancery, — 
-where  thou  too,  if  thou  wilt  look,  inavst  read  and  know,  That 
its  death-doom  shall  not  linger.  Be  it  speedy,  be  it  sure ! — 
And  so  herewith  were  our  philosophical  reflection,  on  the 
nature,  causes,  prevalence,  decline  and  expected  temporary 
destruction  of  Quackery,  concluded ; and  now  the  Beppic 
poetic  Narrative  can  once  more  take  its  course. 

Beppo  then,  like  a Noah’s  Baven,  is  out  upon  that  watery 
waste  of  dissolute,  beduped,  distracted  European  Life,  to  see 
if  there  is  any  carrion  there.  One  unguided  little  Raven,  in 
the  wide-weltering  ‘ Mother  of  dead  Dogs  : ’ will  he  not  come 
to  hai’in  ; Avill  he  not  be  snapt  up,  drowned,  starved  and 
washed  to  the  Devil  there  ? No  fear  of  him, — for  a time. 
His  eye  (or  scientific  judgment),  it  is  true,  as  yet  takes-in 
only  a small  section  of  it ; but  then  his  scent  (instinct  of 
genius)  is  prodigious  : several  endowments,  forgery  and  others, 
he  has  unfolded  into  talents  ; the  two  sources  of  all  quack 
talent,  Cunning  and  Impudence,  are  his  in  richest  measure. 

As  to  his  immediate  course  of  action  and  adventure,  the 
foolish  Inquisition-Biographer,  it  must  be  owned,  shows  him- 
self a fool,  and  can  give  us  next  to  no  insight.  Like  enough, 
Beppo  ‘ fled  to  Messina  ; ’ simply  as  to  the  nearest  city,  and  to 
get  across  to  the  mainland  : but  as  to  this  ‘certain  Althotas’ 
whom  he  met  there,  and  voyaged  with  to  Alexandria  in  Egypt, 
and  how  they  made  hemp  into  silk,  and  realised  much 
money,  and  came  to  Malta,  and  studied  in  the  Laboratory 
there,  and  then  the  certain  Althotas  died, — of  all  this  what 
shall  be  said  ? The  foolish  Inquisition-Biographer  is  uncertain 
whether  the  certain  Althotas  was  a Greek  or  a Spaniard ; 
but  unhappily  the  prior  question  is  not  settled,  whether  he 
ivas  at  all.  Superfluous  it  seems  to  put  down  Beppo’s  own 
account  of  his  procedure  ; he  gave  multifarious  accounts,  as 
the  exigencies  of  the  case  demanded  ; this  of  the  * certain 
Althotas,  ’ and  hemp  made  it  false  silk,  is  as  verisimilar  as 
that  other  of  the  ‘ sage  Althotas,’  the  heirship  apparent  of 
Trebisond,  and  the  Sherif  of  Mecca’s  “Adieu,  unfortunate 
Child  of  Nature.”  Nay  the  guesses  of  the  ignorant  world ; 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


33 


how  Count  Cagliostro  had  been  traveling-tutor  to  a Prince 
(name  not  given),  whom  he  murdered  and  took  the  money 
from  ; with  others  of  the  like, — were  perhaps  still  more  ab- 
surd. Beppo,  we  can  see,  was  out  and  away, — the  Devil 
knew  whither.  Far,  variegated,  painful  might  his  roamings 
be.  A plausible-looking  shadow  of  him  shows  itself  hovering- 
over  Naples  and  Calabria  ; thither,  as  to  a famed  high-school 
of  Laziness  and  Scoundrelism,  he  may  likely  enough  have 
gone  to  graduate.  Of  the  Malta  Laboratory,  and  Alexandrian 
hemp-silk,  the  less  we  say  the  better.  This  only  is  clear  : 
That  Beppo  dived  deep  down  into  the  lugubrious-obscure 
regions  of  Rascaldom  ; like  a Knight  to  the  palace  of  his 
Fairy  ; remained  unseen  there,  and  returned  thence  armed  at 
all  points. 

If  we  fancy,  meanwhile,  that  Beppo  already  meditated  be- 
coming Grand  Cophta,  and  riding  at  Strasburg  in  the  Cardi- 
nal’s carriage,  we  mistake  much.  Gift  of  Prophecy  has  been 
wisely  denied  to  man.  Did  a man  foresee  his  life,  and  not 
merely  hope  it,  and  grope  it,  and  so,  by  Necessity  and  Free- 
will, make  and  fabricate  it  into  a reality,  he  were  no  man,  but 
some  other  kind  of  creature,  superhuman  or  subterhuman. 
No  man  sees  far  ; the  most  see  no  farther  than  their  noses. 
From  the  quite  dim  uncertain-  mass  of  the  future,  ‘ which  lies 
‘ there,  ’ says  a Scottish  Humorist,  ‘ uncombed,  uncarded,  like 
‘ a mass  of  tarry  wool  proverbially  ill  to  spin,  ’ they  spin  out, 
better  or  wrorse,  their  rumply,  infirm  thread  of  Existence, 
and  wind  it  up,  up, — till  the  spool  is  full ; seeing  but  some 
little  half-yard  of  it  at  once  ; exclaiming,  as  they  look  into  the 
betarred  entangled  mass  of  Futurity,  We  shall  see  ! 

The  first  authentic  fact  with  regard  to  Beppo  is,  that  his 
swart  squat  figure  becomes  visible  in  the  Corso  and  Campo 
Vacciuo  of  Rome  ; that  he  ‘lodges  at  the  Sign  of  the  Sun  in 
the  Rotunda,  ’ and  sells  pen-drawings  there.  Properly  they 
are  not  pen-drawings  ; but  printed  engravings  or  etchings,  to' 
which  Beppo,  writh  a pen  and  a little  Indian  ink,  has  added  the 
degree  of  scratching  to  give  them  the  air  of  such.  Thereby 
mainly  does  he  realise  a thin  livelihood.  From  which  we 
infer  that  his  transactions  in  Naples  and  Calabria,  with  Al- 
3 


34 


COUNT  (JAG LIGHT RO. 


thotas  and  hemp-silk,  or  whatever  else,  had  not  turned  to 
much. 

Forged  pen-drawings  are  no  mine  of  wealth  : neither  was 
Beppo  Balsamo  anything  of  an  Adonis  ; on  the  contrary,  a 
most  dusky,  bull-necked,  mastiff-faced,  sinister-looking  indi- 
vidual : nevertheless,  on  applying  for  the  favour  of  the  hand  of 
Lorenza  Feliciani,  a beautiful  Roman  donzella,  ‘ dwelling 
near  the  Trinity  of  the  Pilgrims,  ’ the  unfortunate  child  of 
Nature  prospers  beyond  our  hopes.  Authorities  differ  as  to 
the  rank  and  status  of  this  fair  Lorenza : one  account  says, 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a Girdle  maker  ; but  adds  erroneously 
that  it  was  in  Calabria.  The  matter  must  remain  suspended. 
Certain  enough,  she  was  a handsome  buxom  creature  ; * both 
pretty  and  lady-like,’  it  is  presumable  ; but  having  no  offer, 
in  a country  too  prone  to  celibacy,  took-up  with  the  bull- 
necked forger  of  pen-drawings,  whose  suit  too  was  doubtless 
pressed  with  the  most  flowing  rhetoric.  She  gave  herself  in 
marriage  to  him  ; and  the  parents  admitted  him  to  quarter  in 
their  house,  till  it  should  appear  what  was  next  to  be  done. 

Two  kitchen-fires,  says  the  Proverb,  burn  not  on  one  hearth  : 
here,  moreover,  might  be  quite  special  causes  of  discord. 
Pen-drawing,  at  best  a hungry  concern,  has  now  exhausted 
itself,  and  must  be  given  up  ; but  Beppo’s  household  pros- 
pects brighten,  on  the  other  side  : in  the  charms  of  his  Lo- 
renza he  sees  before  him  what  the  French  call  1 a Future  con- 
fused and  immense.’  The  hint  was  given ; and,  with  reluctance, 
or  without  reluctance  (for  the  evidence  leans  both  ways),  was 
taken  and  reduced  to  practice  : Signor  and  Signora  Balsamo 
are  forth  from  the  old  Girdler’s  house,  into  the  wide  world, 
seeking  and  finding  adventures. 

The  foolish  Inquisition-Biographer,  with  painful  scientific 
accuracy,  furnishes  a descriptive  catalogue  of  all  the  succes- 
sive Cullies  (Italian  Counts,  French  Envoys,  Spanish  Mar- 
quises, Dukes  and  Drakes)  in  various  quarters  of  the  known 
world,  whom  this  accomplished  pah-  took-in  ; with  the  sums 
each  yielded,  and  the  methods  employed  to  bewitch  him. 
Into  which  descriptive  catalogue,  why  should  we  here  so  much 
as  cast  a glance  ? Cullies,  the  easy  cushions  on  which  knave>s 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


35 


and  knavesses  repose  and  fatten,  have  at  all  times  existed,  in 
considerable  profusion  : neither  can  the  fact  of  a clothed  ani- 
mal, Marquis  or  other,  having  acted  in  that  capacity  to  never 
such  lengths,  entitle  him  to  mention  in  History.  We  pass 
over  these.  Beppo,  or  as  we  must  now  learn  to  call  him,  the 
Count,  appears  at  Venice,  at  Marseilles,  at  Madrid,  Cadiz,  Lis- 
bon, Brussels  ; makes  scientific  pilgrimage  to  Quack  Saint-Ger- 
main in  Westphalia,  religious-commercial  to  Saint  Saint-James 
in  Compostello,  to  Our  Lady  in  Loretto  : south,  north,  east-, 
west,  he  shows  himself  ; finds  everywhere  Lubricity  and  Stu- 
pidity (better  or  worse  provided  with  cash),  the  two  elements 
on  which  he  thaumaturgically  can  work  and  live.  Practice 
makes  perfection ; Beppo  too  was  an  apt  scholar.  By  all 
methods  he  can  waken  the  stagnant  imagination  ; cast  mad- 
dening powder  in  the  eyes.  Already  in  Borne  he  has  culti- 
vated whiskers,  and  put-on  the  uniform  of  a Prussian  Colonel : 
dame  Lorenza  is  fair  to  look  upon  ; but  how  much  fairer,  if 
by  the  air  of  distance  and  dignity  you  lend  enchantment  to 
her  ! In  other  places,  the  Count  appears  as  real  Count  ; as 
Marquis  Pellegrini  (lately  from  foreign  parts)  ; as  Count  this 
and  Count  that,  Count  Proteus-Incognito  ; finally  as  Count 
Alessandro  Cagliostro.1  Figure  him  shooting  through  the 
world  with  utmost  rapidity  ; ducking  under  here,  when  the 
sword-fishes  of  Justice  make  a dart  at  him  ; ducking  up  yon- 
der, in  new  shape,  at  the  distance  of  a thousand  miles ; not 
unprovided  with  forged  vouchers  of  respectability  ; above  all, 
with  that  best  voucher  of  respectability,  a four-horse  carriage, 
beef-eaters,  and  open  purse,  for  Count  Cagliostro  has  ready- 
money  and  pays  his  way.  At  some  Hotel  of  the  Sun,  Hotel 
of  the  Angel,  Gold  Lion,  or  Green  Goose,  or  whatever  Hotel 
it  is,  in  whatever  world-famous  capital  City,  his  chariot-wheels 
have  rested  ; sleep  and  food  have  refreshed  his  live-stock,' 
chiefly  the  pearl  and  soul  thereof,  his  indispensable  Lorenza, 
now  no  longer  Dame  Lorenza,  but  Countess  Seraphina,  look- 
ing seraphic  enough  ! Moneyed  Donothings,  whereof  in  this 

1 Not  altogether  an  intention  this  last ; for  his  grand-uncle  (a  bell- 
founder  at  Messina  ?)  was  actually  surnamed  Cagliostro , as  well  as  named 
Giuseppe. — 0.  Y. 


36 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


vexed  Earth  there  are  many,  ever  lounging  about  such  places, 
scan,  and  comment  on  the  foreign  coat-of-arms  ; ogle  the  fair 
foreign  woman ; who  timidly  recoils  from  their  gaze,  timidly 
responds  to  their  reverences,  as  in  halls  and  passages,  they 
obsequiously  throw  themselves  in  her  way  : erelong  one 
moneyed  Donothing,  from  amid  his  tags  and  tassels,  sword 
belts,  fop-tackle,  frizzled  hail’  without  brains  beneath  it,  is 
heard  speaking  to  another  : “ Seen  the  Countess  ? — Divine 
creature  that ! ” — and  so  the  game  is  begun. 

Let  not  the  too  sanguine  reader,  meanwhile,  fancy  that  it 
is  all  holiday  and  heyday  with  his  Lordship.  The  course  of 
scoundrelism,  any  more  than  that  of  true  love,  never  did  run 
smooth.  Seasons  there  may  be  when  Count  Proteus-Incognito 
has  his  epaulettes  torn  from  his  shoulders  ; his  garment-skirts 
dipt  close  by  the  buttocks  ; and  is  bid  sternly  tarry  at  Jericho 
till  his  beard  be  grown.  Harpies  of  Law  defile  his  solemn 
feasts  ; his  light  burns  languid  ; for  a space  seems  utterly 
snuffed  out,  and  dead  in  malodorous  vapour.  Dead  only  to 
blaze  up  the  brighter  ! There  is  scoundrel-life  in  Beppo  Cag- 
liostro  ; cast  him  among  the  mud,  tread  him  out  of  sight  there, 
the  miasmata  do  but  stimulate  and  refresh  him,  he  rises  sneez- 
ing, is  strong  and  young  again. 

Behold  him,  for  example,  again  in  Palermo,  after  having 
seen  many  men  and  many  lands  ; and  how  he  again  escapes 
thence.  Why  did  he  return  to  Palermo?  Perhaps  to  aston- 
ish old  friends  by  new  grandeur  ; or  for  temporary  shelter,  if 
the  Continent  were  getting  hot  for  him  ; or  perhaps  in  the 
mere  way  of  general  trade.  He  is  seized  there,  and  clapt  in 
prison,  for  those  foolish  old  businesses  of  the  treasure-digging 
Goldsmith,  of  the  forged  Will. 

• ‘ The  manner  of  his  escape,’  says  one,  whose  few  words  on 

this  obscure  matter  are  so  many  light-points  for  us,  ‘ deserves 
to  be  described.  The  Son  of  one  of  the  first  Sicilian  Princes, 
and  great  landed  Proprietors  (who  moreover  had  tilled  impor- 
tant stations  at  the  Neapolitan  Court),  was  a person  that  united 
with  a strong  body  and  ungovernable  temper  all  the  tyranni- 
cal caprice,  which  the  rich  and  great,  without  cultivation, 
think  themselves  entitled  to  exhibit. 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


37 


1 Donna  Lorenza  had  contrived  to  gain  this  man  ; and  on 
him  the  fictitious  Marchese  Pellegrini  founded  his  security. 
The  Prince  testified  openly  that  he  was  the  protector  of  this 
stranger  pair  : but  what  was  his  fury  when  Joseph  Balsamo, 
at  the  instance  of  those  whom  he  had  cheated,  was  cast  into 
prison  ! He  tried  various  means  to  deliver  him  ; and  as  these 
would  not  prosper,  he  publicly,  in  the  President’s  antecham- 
ber, threatened  the  plaintiffs’  Advocate  with  the  frightfullest 
misusage  if  the  suit  were  not  clropt,  and  Balsamo  forthwith  set 
at  liberty.  As  the  Advocate  declined  such  proposal,  he  clutched 
him,  beat  him,  threw  him  on  the  floor,  trampled  him  with  his 
feet,  and  could  hardly  be  restrained  from  still  farther  outrages, 
when  the  President  himself  came  running  out,  at  the  tumult, 
and  commanded  peace. 

1 This  latter,  a wreak,  dependent  man,  made  no  attempt  to 
punish  the  injurer  ; the  plaintiffs  and  their  Advocate  grew 
fainthearted  ; and  Balsamo  was  let  go  ; not  so  much  as  a reg- 
istration in  the  Court-Books  specifying  his  dismissal,  who  oc- 
casioned it,  or  how  it  took  place.’  * 

Thus  sometimes,  a friend  in  the  court  is  better  than  a 
penny  in  the  purse  ! Marchese  Pellegrini  ‘ quickly  there- 
‘ after  left  Palermo,  and  performed  various  travels,  whereof 
‘ my  author  could  impart  no  clear  information.’  Whether, 
or  how  far,  the  Game-chicken  Prince  went  with  him  is  not 
hinted. 

So  it  might,  at  times,  be  quite  otherwise  than  in  coack-and- 
four  that  our  Cagliostro  journeyed.  Occasionally  we  find 
him  as  outrider  journeying  on  horseback  ; only  Serapkina 
and  her  sop  (whom  she  is  to  suck  and  eat)  lolhng  on  carriage- 
cushions  ; the  hardy  Count  glad  that  hereby  he  can  have  the 
shot  paid.  Nay  sometimes  he  looks  utterly  poverty-struck, 
and  must  journey  one  knows  not  how.  Thus  one  briefest 
but  authentic-looking  glimpse  of  him  presents  itself  in 
England,  in  the  year  1772  : no  Count  is  he  here,  but  mere 
Signor  Balsamo  again  ; engaged  in  house-painting,  for  which 
he  has  a most  peculiar  talent.  Was  it  true  that  he  painted 
the  country-house  of  ‘ a Doctor  Benemore  ; ’ and  having  not 
painted,  but  only  smeared  it,  was  refused  payment,  and  got 

1 Goetlie’s  WerTcc,  h.  xxviii.  132. 


38 


CO  UNT  CA  GL1 0S1  liO. 


a lawsuit  with  expenses  instead  ? If  Doctor  Benemore  have 
left  any  representatives  in  this  Earth,  they  are  desired  to  speak 
out.  We  add  only,  that  if  young  Beppo  had  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest wives,  old  Benemore  had  one  of  the  ugliest  daughters ; 
and  so,  putting  one  thing  to  another,  matters  might  not  be  so 
bad. 

For  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  Count,  on  his  own  side, 
even  in  his  days  of  highest  splendour,  is  not  idle.  Faded 
dames  of  quality  have  many  wants  : the  Count  has  not  stud- 
ied in  the  convent  Laboratory,  or  pilgrimed  to  the  Count 
Saint-Germain,  in  Westphalia,  to  no  purpose.  With  loftiest 
condescension  he  stoops  to  impart  somewhat  of  his  supernat- 
ural secrets, — for  a consideration.  Howland’s  Kalydor  is 
valuable ; but  what  to  the  Beautifying-water  of  Count  Ales- 
sandro ! He  that  will  undertake  to  smooth  wrinkles,  and 
make  withered  green  parchment  into  a fair  carnation  skin,  is 
he  not  one  whom  faded  dames  of  quality  will  delight  to  hon- 
our ? Or  again,  let  the  Beautifying-water  succeed  or  not, 
have  not  such  dames,  if  calumny  may  be  in  aught  believed, 
another  want?  This  want  too  the  indefatigable  Cagliostro 
will  supply, — for  a consideration.  For  faded  gentlemen 
of  quality  the  Count  likewise  has  help.  Not  a charming 
Countess  alone  ; but  a ‘ Wine  of  Egypt  1 (cantharides  not 
being  unknown  to  him),  sold  in  drops,  more  precious  than 
nectar  ; which  what  faded  gentleman  of  quality  would  not 
purchase  with  anything  short  of  life  ? Consider  now  what  may 
be  done  with  potions,  washes,  charms,  love-philtres,  among  a 
class  of  mortals,  idle  from  the  mother’s  womb  ; rejoicing  to 
be  taught  the  Ionic  dances,  and  meditating  of  love  from  their 
tender  nails  ! 

Thus  waxing,  waning,  broad-shining,  or  extinct,  an  incon- 
stant but  unwearied  Moon,  rides  on  its  course  the  Cagliostric 
star.  Thus  are  Count  and  Countess  busy  in  them  vocation  ; 
thus  do  they  spend  the  golden  season  of  their  youth, — shall 
we  say,  ‘ for  the  Greatest  Happiness  of  the  greatest  num- 
ber?’ Happy  enough,  had  there  been  no  sumptuary  or 
adultery  or  swindlery  Law-acts  ; no  Heaven  above,  no  Hell  be- 
neath ; no  flight  of  Time,  and  gloomy  land  of  Eld  and  Desti- 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


39 


tution  and  Desperation,  towards  which,  hy  law  of  Fate,  they 
see  themselves,  at  all  moments,  with  frightful  regularity,  un- 
aidably  drifting. 

The  prudent  man  provides  against  the  inevitable.  Al- 
ready Count  Cagliostro,  with  his  love-philtres,  his  canthar- 
idic  Wine  of  Egypt  ; nay  far  earlier,  by  his  blue-tlames  and 
divining-rods,  as  with  the  poor  sheep  Goldsmith  of  Palermo  ; 
and  ever  since,  by  many  a significant  hint  thrown  out  where 
the  scene  suited, — has  dabbled  in  the  Supernatural.  As  his 
seraphic  Couutess  gives  signs  of  withering,  and  one  luxuri- 
ant branch  of  industry  will  die  and  drop  off,  others  must  be 
pushed  into  budding.  Whether  it  was  in  England  during 
what  he  called  his  ‘first  visit’  in  the  year  1776  (for  the  be- 
fore-first, house-smearing  visit  was,  reason  or  none,  to  go  for 
nothing)  that  he  first  thought  of  Prophecy  as  a trade,  is  un- 
known : certain  enough,  he  had  begun  to  practise  it  then  ; 
and  this  indeed  not  without  a glimpse  of  insight  into  the 
English  national  character.  Various,  truly,  are  the  pursuits 
of  mankind  ; whereon  they  would  fain,  unfolding  the  future, 
take  Destiny  by  surprise  : with  us,  however,  as  a nation  of 
shopkeepers,  they  may  be  all  said  to  centre  in  this  one,  Put 
money  in  thy  purse  ! O for  a Fortunatus’-Pocket,  with  its 
ever-new  coined  gold  if,  indeed,  the  true  prayer  were  not 
rather : O for  a Crassus’-Drink,  of  liquid  gold,  that  so  the 
accursed  throat  of  Avarice  might  for  once  have  enough  and 
to  spare  ! Meanwhile  whoso  should  engage,  keeping  clear  of 
the  gallows,  to  teach  men  the  secret  of  making  money,  were 
not  he  a Professor  sure  of  audience?  Strong  were  the  gen- 
eral Scepticism  ; still  stronger  the  general  Need  and  Greed. 
Count  Cagliostro,  from  his  residence  in  Whitcombe  Street,  it 
is  clear,  had  looked  into  the  mysteries  of  the  Littlego  ; by 
occult  science,  knew  the  lucky  number.  Bish  as  yet  was 
not  ; but  Lotteries  were  ; gulls  also  were.  The  Count  has 
his  Language-master,  his  Portuguese  Jew,  his  nondescript 
Ex-Jesuits,  whom  he  puts  forth,  as  antennae,  into  coffee- 
houses, to  stir-up  the  minds  of  men.  ‘Lord’  Scott  (a  swin- 
dler swindled),  and  Miss  Fry,  and  many  others,  were  they 
here,  could  tell  what  it  cost  them  : nay,  the  very  Law-books, 


40 


CO  TINT  C'A  GLIOSTRO. 


and  Lord  Mansfield  and  Mr.  Howarth.  speak  of  hundreds,  and 
jewel-boxes,  and  quite  handsome  booties.  Thus  can  the 
bustard  pluck  geese,  and,  if  Law  do  get  the  carcass,  live  upon 
their  giblets ; — now  and  then,  however,  finds  a vulture,  too 
tough  to  pluck. 

The  attentive  reader  is  no  doubt  curious  to  understand  all 
the  What  and  the  How  of  Cagliostro’s  procedure  while  Eng- 
land was  the  scene.  As  we  too  are,  and  have  been  ; but  un- 
happily all  in  vain.  To  that  English  Life  of  uncertain  gender 
none,  as  was  said,  need  in  their  utmost  extremity  repair. 
Scarcely  the  very  lodging  of  Cagliostro  can  be  ascertained  ; 
except  incidentally  that  it  was  once  in  Wliitcombe  Street  ; 
for  a few  days,  in  Warwick  Court,  Holborn  ; finally,  for  some 
space,  in  the  King’s  Bench  Jail.  Vain  were  it,  meanwhile, 
for  any  reverencer  of  genius  to  pilgrim  thither,  seeking 
memorials  of  a great  man.  Cagliostro  is  clean  gone  : on  the 
strictest  search,  no  token  never  so  faint  discloses  itself.  He 
went,  and  left  nothing  behind  him  ; — except  perhaps  a few 
cast-clothes,  and  other  inevitable  exuviae,  long  since,  not  in- 
deed annihilated  (this  nothing  can  be),  yet  beaten  into  mud, 
and  spread  as  new  soil  over  the  general  surface  of  Middlesex 
and  Surrey  ; floated  by  the  Thames  into  old  Ocean  ; or  flit- 
ting, the  gaseous  parts  of  them,  in  the  universal  Atmosphere, 
borne  thereby  to  remotest  corners  of  the  Earth,  or  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  Solar  System  ! So  fleeting  is  the  track  and 
habitation  of  man  ; so  wondrous  the  stuff  he  builds  of  ; his 
house,  his  very  house  of  houses  (what  we  call  his  body),  were 
he  the  first  of  geniuses,  will  evaporate  in  the  strangest  man- 
ner, and  vanish  even  whither  we  have  said. 

To  us  on  our  side,  however,  it  is  cheering  to  discover,  for 
one  thing,  that  Cagliostro  found  antagonists  worthy  of  him  : 
the  bustard  plucking  geese,  and  living  on  their  giblets,  found 
not  our  whole  Island  peopled  with  geese,  but  here  and  there, 
as  above  hinted,  with  vultures,  with  hawks  of  still  sharper 
quality  than  his.  Priddle,  • Aylett,  Saunders,  O’Reilly : let 
these  stand  forth  as  the  vindicators  of  English  national  char- 
acter. By  whom  Count  Alessandro  Cagliostro,  as  in  dim 
fluctuating  outline,  indubitably  appears,  was  bewritted.  ar- 


COUNT  CAGL10STR0. 


41 


rested,  fleeced,  hatchelled,  bewildered,  and  bedevilled,  till  the 
very  Jail  of  King’s  Bench  seemed  a refuge  from  them.  A 
wholly  obscure  contest,  as  was  natural ; wherein,  however,  to 
all  candid  eyes  the  vulturous  and  falconish  character  of  our 
Isle  fully  asserts  itself  ; and  the  foreign  Quack  of  Quacks, 
with  all  his  thaumaturgic  Hemp-silks,  Lottery-numbers. 
Beauty-waters,  Seductions,  Phosphorus-boxes,  and  Wines  of 
Egypt,  is  seen  matched,  and  nigh  throttled,  by  the  natural 
unassisted  cunning  of  English  Attorneys.  Whereupon  the 
bustard,  feeling  himself  so  pecked  and  plucked,  takes  wing, 
and  flies  to  foreign  parts. 

One  good  thing  he  has  carried  with  him,  notwithstanding  : 
initiation  into  some  primary  arcana  of  Freemasonry.  The 
Quack  of  Quacks,  with  his  primitive  bias  towards  the  super- 
natural-mystificatory,  must  long  have  bad  his  eye  on  Ma- 
sonry ; which,  with  its  blazonry  and  mummery,  sashes,  drawn 
sabres,  brothers  Terrible,  brothers  Venerable  (the  whole  so 
imposing  by  candle -light),  offered  the  choicest  element  for 
him.  All  men  profit  by  Union  with  men ; the  quack  as 
much  as  another ; nay  in  these  two  words,  Sworn  Secrec //, 
alone  has  he  not  found  a very  talisman  ! Cagliostro,  then, 
determines  on  Masonship.  It  was  afterwards  urged  that  the 
Lodge  to  which  he  and  his  Seraphina  got  admission,  for  she 
also  was  made  a Mason,  or  Masoness,  and  had  a riband- 
garter  solemnly  bound  on,  with  order  to  sleep  in  it  for  n 
night, — was  a Lodge  of  low  rank  in  the  social  scale  ; number- 
ing not  a few  of  the  pastry-cook  and  hairdresser  species.  To 
which  it  could  only  be  replied,  that  these  alone  spoke  French  ; 
that  a man  and  mason,  though  he  cooked  pastry,  was  still 
a man  and  mason.  Be  this  as  it  might,  the  apt  Recipien- 
dary  is  rapidly  promoted  through  the  three  grades  of  Appren- 
tice, Companion,  Master  ; at  the  cost  of  five  guineas.  That 
of  his  being  first  raised  into  the  air,  by  means  of  a rope  and 
pully  fixed  in  the  ceiling,  ‘ during  which  the  heavy  mass  of 
his  body  must  assuredly  have  caused  him  a dolorous  sensation ; ’ 
and  then  being  forced  blindfold  to  shoot  himself  (though  with 
privily  disloaded  pistol),  in  sign  of  courage  and  obedience  : 
all  this  we  can  esteem  an  apocrypha, — palmed  on  the  Roman 


42 


COUNT  'CAGL10STR0. 


Inquisition,  otherwise  prone  to  delusion.  Five  guineas,  and 
some  foolish  froth-speeches,  delivered  over  liquor  and  other- 
wise, was  the  cost.  If  you  ask  now,  In  what  London  Lodge 
was  it  ? Alas,  we  know  not,  and  shall  never  know.  Certain 
only  that  Count  Alessandro  is  a master-mason  ; that  having 
once  crossed  the  threshold,  his  plastic  genius  will  not  stop 
there.  Behold,  accordingly,  he  has  bought  from  a ‘Bookseller’ 
certain  manuscripts  belonging  to  ‘ one  George  Cofton,  a man 
absolutely  unknown  to  him  ’ and  to  us,  which  treat  of  the 
‘ Egyptian  Masonry  ! ’ In  other  words.  Count  Alessandro 
will  blow  with  his  new  five-guinea  bellows  ; having  always  oc- 
casion to  raise  the  wind. 

With  regard  specially  to  that  huge  soap-bubble  of  an  Egyp- 
tian Masonry  wrhich  he  blew,  and  as  conjuror  caught  many 
flies  with,  it  is  our  painful  duty  to  say  a little  ; not  much. 
The  Inquisition-Biographer,  with  deadly  fear  of  heretical  and 
democratical  and  blackmagical  Freemasons  before  his  eyes, 
has  gone  into  the  matter  to  boundless  depths  ; commenting, 
elucidating,  even  confuting : a certain  expository  masonic 
Order-Book  of  Cagliostro’s,  which  he  has  laid  hand  on,  opens 
the  whole  mystery  to  him.  The  ideas  he  declares  to  be  Cagli- 
ostro’s ; the  composition  all  a Disciple’s,  for  the  Count  had  no 
gift  that  way.  What  then  does  the  Disciple  set  forth, — or, 
at  lowest,  the  Inquisition-Biographer  say  that  he  sets  forth? 
Much,  much  that  is  not  to  the  point. 

Understand,  however,  that  once  inspired,  by  the  absolutely 
unknown  George  Cofton,  with  the  notion  of  Egyptian  Masonry, 
wherein  as  yet  lay  much  ‘ magic  and  superstition,’  Count  Ales- 
sandro resolves  to  free  it  of  these  impious  ingredients,  and 
make  it  a kind  of  Last  Evangel,  or  Renovator  of  the  Universe, 
— which  so  needed  renovation.  * As  he  did  not  believe  any- 
thing in  matter  of  Faith,’  says  our’ wooden  Familiar,  ‘nothing 
could  arrest  him.’  True  enough  : how  did  he  move  along 
then  ; to  what  length  did  he  go  ? 

‘ In  his  system  he  promises  his  followers  to  conduct  them  to 
joerfection,  by  means  of  a physical  and  moral  regeneration  ; to 
enable  them  by  the  former  (or  physical)  to  find  the  prune  mat ■ 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


43 


ter,  or  Philosopher's  Stone,  and  the  acacia  which  consolidates 
in  man  the  forces  of  the  most  vigorous  3routh,  and  renders 
him  immortal ; and  by  the  latter  (or  moral)  to  procure  them 
a Pentagon,  which  shall  restore  man  to  his  primitive  state  of 
innocence,  lost  by  original  sin.  The  Founder  supposes  that 
this  Egyptian  Masonry  was  instituted  by  Enoch  and  Elias, 
who  propagated  it  in  different  parts  of  the  world : however, 
in  time,  it  lost  much  of  its  purity  and  splendour.  And  so,  by 
degrees,  the  Masonry  of  men  had  been  reduced  to  pure  buf- 
foonery ; and  that  of  women  been  almost  entirely  destroyed, 
having  now  for  most  part  no  place  in  common  Masonry.  Till 
at  last,  the  zeal  of  the  Grand  Cophta  (so  are  the  High-priests 
of  Egypt  named)  had  signalised  itself  by  restoring  the  Masonry 
of  both  sexes  to  its  pristine  lustre.’ 

With  regard  to  the  great  question  of  constructing  this  in- 
valuable Pentagon,  which  is  to  abolish  Original  Sin  : how  you 
have  to  choose  a solitary  mountain,  and  call  it  Sinai  ; and 
build  a Pavilion  on  it  to  be  named  Sion,  with  twelve  sides,  in 
every  side  a window,  and  three  stories,  one  of  which  is  named 
Ararat ; and  there,  with  Twelve  Masters,  each  at  a window, 
yourself  in  the  middle  of  them,  to  go  through  unspeakable 
formalities,  vigils,  removals,  fasts,  toils,  distresses,  and  hardly 
get  your  Pentagon  after  all, — with  regard  to  this  great  ques- 
tion and  construction,  we  shall  say  nothing.  As  little  con- 
cerning the  still  grander  and  painfuller  process  of  Physical 
Regeneration,  or  growing  young  again  ; a thing  not  to  be  ac- 
complished without  a forty-days  course  of  medicine,  purga- 
tions, sweating-baths,  fainting-fits,  root-diet,  phlebotomy,  star- 
vation and  desperation,  more  perhaps  than  it  is  all  worth. 
Leaving  these  interior  solemnities,  and  many  high  moral  pre- 
cepts of  union,  virtue,  wisdom,  and  doctrines  of  immortality 
and  what  not,  will  the  reader  care  to  cast  an  indifferent  glance 
on  certain  esoteric  ceremonial  parts  of  this  Egyptian  Masonry, 
— as  the  Inquisition-Biographer,  if  we  miscellaneously  cull 
from  him,  may  enable  us  ? 

‘In  all  these  ceremonial  parts,’ huskily  avers  the  wooden 
Biographer,  ‘ you  find  as  much  sacrilege,  profanation,,  super- 
stition and  idolatry,  as  in  common  Masonry  : invocations  of 
the  holy  Name,  prosternations,  adorations  lavished  on  the 


44 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


Venerable,  or  Lead  of  the  Lodge  ; aspirations,  insufflations, 
incense-burnings,  fumigations,  exorcisms  of  the  Candidates  and 
the  garments  they  are  to  take  ; emblems  of  the  sacrosanct 
Triad,  of  the  Moon,  of  the  Sun,  of  the  Compass,  Square,  and 
a thousand-thousand  other  iniquities  and  ineptitudes,  which 
are  now  well  known  in  the  world.’ 

‘We  above  made  mention  of  the  Grand  Cophta.  By  this 
title  has  been  designated  the  founder  or  restorer  of  Egyptian 
Masonry.  Cagliostro  made  no  difficulty  in  admitting  ’ (to  me 
the  Inquisitor)  ‘that  under  such  name  he  was  himself'  meant : 
now  in  this  system  the  Grand  Cophta  is  compared  to  the 
Highest  : the  most  solemn  acts  of  worship  are  paid  him  ; he 
has  authority  over  the  Angels ; he  is  invoked  on  all  occasions ; 
everything  is  done  in  virtue  of  his  power  ; which  you  are  as- 
sured he  derives  immediately  from  God.  Nay  more  : among 
the  various  rites  observed  in  this  exercise  of  Masonry,  you  are 
ordered  to  recite  the  Veni  Creator  spiritus,  the  Te  Deum , and 
some  Psalms  of  David  : to  such  an  excess  is  impudence  and 
audacity  carried,  that  in  the  Psalm,  Memento,  1) amine,  David 
et  omnis  rnansuetudinis  ejus,  every  time  the  name  David  oc- 
curs, that  of  the  Grand  Cophta  is  to  be  substituted. 

‘ No  Religion  is  excluded  from  the  Egyptian  Society  : the 
Jew,  the  Calvinist,  the  Lutheran,  can  be  admitted  equally  well 
with  the  Catholic,  if  so  be  they  admit  the  existence  of  God 
and  the  immortality  of  the  soul.’  ‘ The  men  elevated  to  the 
rank  of  master  take  the  names  of  the  ancient  Prophets  ; the 
women  those  of  the  Sibyls.’ 

* * ‘ Then  the  grand  Mistress  blows  on  the  face  of 

the  female  • Recipiendary,  all  along  from  brow  to  chin,  and 
says  : “ I give  you  this  breath,  to  cause  to  germinate  and  be- 
come alive  in  your  heart  the  Truth  which  we  possess  ; to  for- 
tify in  you.  the  ” &c.  &c.  “ Guardian  of  the  new  Knowledge 

which  we  prepare  to  make  you  partake  of,  by  the  sacred 
names  of  Helios,  Mene,  Tetragrammalon.” 

‘ In  the  Essai  sur  les  Illumines,  printed  at  Pairs  in  1789,  I 
read  that  these  latter  words  were  suggested  to  Cagliostro  as 
Arabic  or  Sacred  ones  by  a Sleight-of-hand  Man,  who  said 
that  he  was  assisted  by  a spirit,  and  added  that  this  spirit 
■was  the  Soul  of  a Cabalist  Jew,  who  by  art-magic  had  killed 
his  pig  before  the  Christian  Advent.’ 

* * ‘ They  take  a young,  lad,  or  a girl  who  is  in  the 

state  of  innocence,  such  they  call  the  Pupil  or  the  Columb  : 
the  Venerable  communicates  to  him  the  power  he  would  have 
had  before  the  Fall  of  Man  ; which  power  consists  mainly  in 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


45 


commanding  the  pure  Spirits  ; these  Spirits  are  to  the  num- 
ber of  seven  : it  is  said  they  surround  the  Throne  ; and  that 
they  govern  the  Seven  Planets  : their  names  are  Anael, 
Michael,  Baphael,  Gabriel,  Uriel,  Zobiachel,  Anachiel.’ 

Or  would  the  reader  wish  to  see  this  Columb  in  action  ? 
She  can  act  in  two  ways  ; either  behind  a curtain,  behind  a 
liieroglyphically-painted  Screen  with  ‘ table  and  three  can- 
dles ; ’ or  as  here  ‘before  the  Caraffe,’  and  showing  face.  If 
the  miracle  fail,  it  can  only  be  because  she  is  not  ‘in  the  state 
of  innocence,’ — an  accident  much  to  be  guarded  against. 
This  scene  is  at  Mittau  ; — we  find,  indeed,  that  it  is  a Pupil 
affair,  not  a Columb  one  ; but  for  the  rest,  that  is  perfectly 
indifferent  : 

‘ Cagliostro  accordingly  (it  is  his  own  story  still)  brought  a 
little  Boy  into  the  Lodge  ; son  of  a nobleman  there.  He 
placed  him  on  his  knees  before  a table,  whereon  stood  a 
Bottle  of  pure  water,  and  behind  this  some  lighted  candles  : 
he  made  an  exorcism  round  the  Boy,  put  his  hand  on  his 
head : and  both,  in  this  attitude,  addressed  their  prayers  to 
God  for  the  happy  accomplishment  of  the  work.  Haying 
then  bid  the  child  look  into  the  Bottle,  directly  the  child 
cried  that  he  saw  a garden.  Knowing  hereby  that  Heaven 
assisted  him,  Cagliostro  took  courage,  and  bade  the  child  ask 
of  God  the  grace  to  see  the  Angel  Michael.  At  first  the  child 
said  : “I  see  something  white  ; I know  not  what  it  is.”  Then 
he  began  jumping,  stamping  like  a possessed  creature,  and 
cried  : “ There  now  ! I see  a child,  like  myself,  that  seems  to 
have  something  angelical.”  All  the  assembly,  and  Caglios- 
tro himself,  remained  speechless  with  emotion.  * * * 

The  child  being  anew  exorcised,  with  the  hands  of  the  Venera- 
ble on  his  head,  and  the  customary  prayers  addressed  to 
Heaven,  he  looked  into  the  Bottle,  and  said,  he  saw  his  Sister 
at  that  moment  coming  down  stairs,  and  embracing  one  of 
her  brothers.  That  appeared  impossible,  the  brother  in  ques- 
tion being  then  hundreds  of  miles  off : however,  Cagliostro 
felt  not  disconcerted ; said,  they  might  send  to  the  country- 
house  where  the  sister  was,  and  see.’ 1 

1 Vie  de  Joseph  Balsamo  ; traduite  d’apres  Voriginal  Italien,  ch.  ii.  iii. 
(Paris,  1791.) 


46 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


Wonderful  enough.  Here,  however,  a fact  rather  suddenly 
transpires,  which,  as  the  Inquisition-Biographer  well  urges, 
must  serve  to  undeceive  all  believers  in  Cagliostro  ; at  least, 
call  a blush  into  their  cheeks.  It  seems : ‘ The  Grand  Cophta, 

‘ the  restorer,  the  propagator  of  Egyptian  Masonry,  Count 
‘ Cagliostro  himself,  testifies,  in  most  part  of  his  System,  the 
‘ profoundest  respect  for  the  Patriarch  Moses : and  yet  this 
‘ same  Cagliostro  affirmed  before  his  judges  that  he  had  always 
‘ felt  the  insurmountablest  antipathy  to  Moses ; and  attributes 
‘ this  hatred  to  his  constant  opinion,  that  Moses  was  a thief 
‘ for  having  carried  off  the  Egyptian  vessels ; which  opinion, 

‘ in  spite  of  all  the  luminous  arguments  that  were  opposed  to 
‘ him  to  show  how  erroneous  it  was,  he  has  continued  to  hold 
‘ with  an  invincible  obstinacy  ! ’ How  reconcile  these  two  in- 
consistencies ? Ay,  how? 

But  to  finish-off  this  Egyptian  Masonic  business,  and  bring 
it  all  to  a focus,  we  shall  now,  for  the  first  and  for  the  last 
time,  peep  one  moment  through  the  spyglass  of  Monsieur  de 
Luchet,  in  that  Essai  sur  les  Illumines  of  his.  The  whole  mat- 
ter being  so  much  of  a chimera,  how  can  it  be  painted  other- 
wise than  chimerically  ? Of  the  following  passage  one  thing 
is  true,  that  a creature  of  the  seed  of  Adam  believed  it  to  be 
true.  List,  list,  then  ; O list ! 

‘ The  Becipiendary  is  led  by  a darksome  path,  into  an  im- 
mense hall,  the  ceiling,  the  walls,  the  floor  of  which  are  cov- 
ered by  a black  cloth,  sprinkled  over  with  red  flames  and  men- 
acing serpents : three  sepulchral  lamps  emit,  from  time  to 
time,  a dying  glimmer  ; and  the  eye  half  distinguishes,  in  this 
lugubrious  den,  certain  wrecks  of  mortality  suspended  by 
funeral  crapes  : a heap  of  skeletons  forms  in  the  centre  a sort 
of  altar ; on  both  sides  of  it  are  piled  books  ; some  contain 
menaces  against  the  perjured  ; others  the  deadly  narrative  of 
the  vengeances  which  the  Invisible  Spirit  has  exacted  ; of  the 
infernal  evocations  for  a long  time  pronounced  in  vain. 

‘ Eight  hours  elapse.  Then  Phantoms,  trailing  mortuary 
veils,  slowly  cross  the  hall,  and  sink  in  caverns,  without  au- 
dible noise  of  trap-doors  or  of  falling.  You  notice  only  that 
they  are  gone,  by  a fetid  odor  exhaled  from  them. 

‘ The  Novice  remains  four-and-twenty  hours  in  this  gloomy 


COUNT  CA GLIOtiTRO. 


47 


abode,  in  the  midst  of  a freezing  silence.  A rigorous  fast  has 
already  weakened  his  thinking  faculties.  Liquors,  prepared 
for  the  purpose,  first  weary,  and  at  length  wear-out  his  senses. 
At  his  feet  are  placed  three  cups,  filled  with  a drink  of  green- 
ish colour.  Necessity^  lifts  them  towards  his  lips  ; involuntary 
fear  repels  them. 

‘ At  last  appear  two  men  ; looked  upon  as  the  ministers  of 
death.  These  gird  the  pale  brow  of  the  Recipiendary  with  an 
auroral-coloured  riband,  dipt  in  blood,  and  full  of  silvered 
characters  mixed  with  the  figure  of  Our  Lady"  of  Loretto.  He 
receives  a copper  crucifix,  of  two  inches  length  ; to  his  neck 
are  hung  a sort  of  amulets,  wrapped  in  violet  cloth.  He  is 
stript  of  his  clothes  ; which  two  ministering  brethren  deposit 
on  a funeral  pile,  erected  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  With 
blood,  on  his  naked  body,  are  traced  crosses.  In  this  state  of 
suffering  and  humiliation,  he  sees  approaching  with  large 
strides  five  Phantoms,  armed  with  swords,  and  clad  in  gar- 
ments dropping  blood.  Their  faces  are  veiled  : they"  spread  a 
carpet  on  the  floor  ; kneel  there  ; pray  ; and  remain  with  out- 
stretched hands  crossed  on  their  breast,  and  face  fixed  on  the 
ground,  in  deep  silence.  An  hour  passes  in  this  painful  atti- 
tude. After  which  fatiguing  trial,  plaintive  cries  are  heard  ; 
the  funeral  pile  takes  fire,  yet  casts  only  a pale  light ; the  gar- 
ments are  thrown  on  it  and  burnt.  A colossal  and  almost 
transparent  Figure  rises  from  the  very  bosom  of  the  pile.  At 
sight  of  it,  the  five  prostrated  men  fall  into  convulsions  insup- 
portable to  look  on ; the  too  faithful  image  of  those  foaming 
struggles  wherein  a mortal,  at  handgrips  with  a sudden  pain, 
ends  by  sinking  under  it. 

‘ Then  a trembling  voice  pierces  the  vault,  and  articulates 
the  formula  of  those  execrable  oaths  that  are  to  be  sworn  : 
my  pen  falters  ; I think  myself  almost  guilty  to  retrace  them.’ 

O Luchet,  what  a taking  ! Is  there  no  hope  left,  thinkest 
thou  ? Thy  brain  is  all  gone  to  addled  albumen  ; help  seems 
none,  if  not  in  that  last  mother’s-bosom  of  all  the  ruined  : 
Brandy-and-water  ! — An  unfeeling  world  may  laugh  ; but 
ought  to  recollect  that,  forty  years  ago,  these  things  were  sad 
realities, — in  the  heads  of  many"  men. 

As  to  the  execrable  oaths,  this  seems  the  main  one  : ‘ Hon- 
‘our  and  respect  Aqua  Toffana,  as  a sure,  prompt  and  neces- 
‘ sary  means  of  purging  the  Globe,  by  the  death  or  the  hebe- 


48 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


‘ tation  of  such  as  endeavour  to  debase  the  Truth,  or  snatch  it 
‘ from  our  hands.’  And  so  the  catastrophe  ends  by  bathing 
our  poor  half-dead  Recipiendary  first  in  blood,  then,  after 
some  genuflexions,  in  water  ; and  ‘ serving  him  a repast 
composed  of  roots,’ — we  grieve  to  say,  mere  potatoes-and- 
point ! 

Figure  now  all  this  boundless,  cunningly  devised  Agglom 
erate  of  royal-arches,  death’s-heads,  hieroglyphicaJly  painted 
screens,  Columbs  in  the  state  of  innocence  ; with  spacious  ma- 
sonic halls,  dark,  or  in  the  favourablest  theatrical  light-and- 
dark  ; Kircher’s  magic-lantern,  Belshazzar  hand-writings,  of 
phosphorus ; ‘ plaintive  tones,’  gong-beatings  ; hoary  beard 
of  a supernatural  Grand  Cophta  emerging  from  the  gloom  ; — 
and  how  it  acts,  not  only  indirectly  through  the  foolish  senses 
of  men,  but  directly  on  their  Imagination  ; connecting  itself 
with  Enoch  and  Elias,  with  Philanthropy,  Immortality,  Eleu- 
theromania,  and  Adam  AVeissliaupt’s  Illuminati,  and  so  down- 
wards to  the  infinite  Deep  : figure  all  this  ; and  in  the  centre 
of  it,  sitting  eager  and  alert,  the  skilfullest  Panourgos,  work- 
ing the  mighty  chaos,  into  a creation — of  ready-money.  In 
such  a wide  plastic  ocean  of  sham  and  foam  had  the  Archcpiaclc 
now  happily  begun  to  envelop  himself. 

Accordingly  he  goes  forth  prospering  and  to  prosper.  Ar- 
rived in  any  City,  he  has  but  by  masonic  grip  to  accredit  him- 
self with  the  Venerable  of  the  place  ; and,  not  by  degrees  as 
formerly,  but  in  a single  night,  is  introduced  in  Grand  Lodge 
to  all  that  is  fattest  and  foolishest  far  or  near  ; and  in  the  fit- 
test arena,  a gilt-pasteboard  Masonic  hall.  There  between  the 
two  pillars  of  Jachin  and  Boaz,  can  the  great  Sheepstealer  see 
Ins  whole  flock  of  Dupeables  assembled  in  one  penfold  ; affec- 
tionately blatant,  licking  the  hand  they  are  to  bleed  by.  A ic- 
torious  Acharat-Beppo  ! The  genius  of  Amazement,  moreover, 
has  now  shed  her  glory  round  him  ; he  is  radiant-headed,  a 
supernatural  by  his  very  gait.  Behold  him  everywhere  wel- 
comed with  vivats,  or  in  awestruck  silence  : gilt-pasteboard 
Freemasons  receive  him  under  the  Steel  Arch  of  crossed 
sabres  ; he  mounts  to  the  Seat  of  the  ATenerable  ; holds  high 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTBO. 


49 


discourse  hours  long,  on  Masonry,  Morality,  Universal  Science, 
Divinity,  and  Things  in  general,  with  ‘ a sublimity,  an  empha- 
sis and  unction,’  proceeding,  it  appears,  ‘ from  the  special  in- 
spiration of  the  Holy  Ofhost.’  Then  there  are  Egyptian  Lodges 
to  be  founded,  corresponded  with, — a thing  involving  expense  ; 
elementary  fractions  of  many  a priceless  arcanum,  nay  if  the 
place  will  stand  it,  of  the  Pentagon  itself,  can  be  given  to  the 
purified  in  life  : how  gladly  would  he  give  them,  but  they  have 
to  be  brought  from  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  world,  and  cost 
money.  Now  too,  with  what  tenfold  impetuosity  do  all  the 
old  trades  of  Egyptian  Drops,  Beauty-waters,  Secret-favours, 
expand  themselves,  and  rise  in  price  ! Life-wTeary  moneyed 
Donothing,  this  seraphic  Countess  is  Grand  Priestess  of  the 
Egyptian  Female  Lodges  ; has  a touch  of  the  supramundane 
Undine  in  her  : among  all  thy  intrigues,  hadst  thou  ever  yet 
Endymion-like  an  intrigue  with  the  lunar  Diana, — called  also 
Hecate  ? And  thou,  O antique,  much-loving  faded  Dowager, 
this  Squire-of-dames  can,  it  appears  probable,  command  the 
Seven  Angels,  Uriel,  Anacliiel  and  Company  ; at  lowest,  has 
the  eyes  of  all  Europe  fixed  on  him  ! — The  dog  pockets  money 
enough,  and  can  seem  to  despise  money. 

To  us,  much  meditating  on  the  matter,  it  seemed  perhaps 
strangest  of  all,  how  Count  Cagliostro,  received  under  the 
Steel  Arch,  could  hold  Discourses,  of  from  one  to  three  hours 
long,  on  Universal  Science,  of  such  unction,  we  do  not  say  as 
to  seem  inspired  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  but  as  not  to  get  him 
lugged  out  of  doors  directly  after  his  first  head  of  method, 
and  drowned  in  whole  oceans  of  salt-and- water.  The  man 
could  not  speak  ; only  babble  in  long-winded  diffusions,  cha- 
otic circumvolutions  tending  nowhither.  He  had  no  thought 
for  speaking  with  ; he  had  not  even  a language.  His  Sicilian 
Italian,  and  Laquais-de-place  French,  garnished  with  shreds 
from  all  European  dialects,  was  •wholly  intelligible  to  no  mor- 
tal ; a Tower-of-Babel  jargon,  which  made  many  think  him  a 
kind  of  Jew.  But  indeed,  with  the  language  of  Greeks,  or  of 
Angels,  what  better  were  it  ? The  man,  once  for  all,  has  no 
articulate  utterance  ; that  tongue  of  his  emits  noises  enough, 
but  no  speech.  Let  him  begin  the  plainest  story,  his  stream 
4 


50 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


stagnates  at  the  first  stage  ; chafes,  “ ahem  ! ahem  ! ” loses 
itself  in  the  earth  ; or,  bursting  over,  flies  abroad  'without  bank 
or  channel,- — into  separate  plashes.  Not  a stream,  but  a lake, 
a wide-spread  indefinite  marsh.  His  whole  thought  is  confused, 
inextricable  ; what  thought,  what  resemblance  of  thought  he 
has,  cannot  deliver  itself,  except  in  gasps,  blustering  gushes, 
spasmodic  refluences,  which  make  bad  worse.  Bubble,  bubble, 
toil  and  trouble:  how  thou  bubblest,  foolish  ‘ Bubbly  jock ! ’ 
Hear  him  once,  and  on  a dead-lift  occasion,  as  the  Inquisition 
Gurney  reports  it : 

‘ “I  mean  and  I wish  to  mean,  that  even  as  those  who 
honour  then’  father  and  mother,  and  respect  the  sovereign 
Pontiff,  are  blessed  of  God  ; even  so  all  that  I did,  I did  it 
by  the  order  of  God,  wuth  the  power  which  he  vouchsafed  me, 
and  to  the  advantage  of  God  and  of  Holy  Church;  and  I 
mean  to  give  the  proofs  of  all  that  I have  done  and  said,  not 
only  physically  but  morally,  by  showing  that  as  I have  served 
God  for  God  and  by  the  power  of  God,  he  has  given  me  at 
last  the  counterpoison  to  confound  and  combat  Hell ; for  I 
know  no  other  enemies  than  those  that  are  in  Hell,  and  if  I 
am  wrong,  the  Holy  Father  will  punish  me  ; if  I am  right,  he 
.will  reward  me;  and  if  the  Holy  Father  could  get  into  his 
hands  to-night  these  answers  of  mine,  I predict  to  all  breth- 
ren, believers  and  unbelievers,  that  I should  be  at  liberty  to- 
morrow morning.”  Being  desired  to  give  these  proofs  then, 
he  answered  : “ To  prove  that  I have  been  chosen  of  God  as 
an  apostle  to  defend,  and  propagate  religion,  I say  that  as  the 
Holy  Church  has  instituted  pastors  to  demonstrate  in  face  of 
the  world  that  she  is  the  true  Catholic  faith,  even  so,  having 
operated  with  approbation  and  by  the  counsel  of  pastors  of 
the  Holy  Church,  I am,  as  I said,  fully  justified  in  regard  to 
all  my  operations ; and  these  pastors  have  assured  me  that 
my  Egyptian  Order  was  divine,  and  deserved  to  be  formed 
into  an  Order  sanctioned  by  the  Holy  Father,  as  I said  in 
another  interrogatory.”  ’ 

How  then,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  said  we,  could  such  a 
babbling,  bubbling  Turkey-cock  speak  with  ‘ unction  ? 

Two  things  here  are  to  be  taken  into  account.  First,  the 
difference  between  speaking  and  public  speaking ; a differ- 
ence  altogether  generic.  Secondly,  the  wonderful  power  of 


CO  TINT  CA  GL10S1R0. 


51 


a certain  audacity,  often  named  impudence.  Was  it  never 
thy  hard  fortune,  good  Reader,  to  attend  any  Meeting  con- 
vened for  Public  purposes  ; any  Bible-Society,  Reform,  Con- 
servative, Thatched-Tavern,  Hogg  Dinner,  or  other  such 
Meeting?  Thou  hast  seen  some  full-fed  Long-ear  by  free 
determination,  or  on  sweet  constraint,  start  to  his  legs,  and 
give  voice.  Well  aware  wert  thou  that  there  was  not,  had 
not  been,  could  not  be,  in  that  entire  ass-cranium  of  his  any 
fraction  of  an  idea : nevertheless  mark  him.  If  at  first  an 
ominous  haze  flit  round,  and  nothing,  not  even  nonsense, 
dwell  in  his  recollection, — heed  it  not  ; let  him  but  plunge 
desperately  on,  the  spell  is  broken.  Commonplaces  enough 
are  at  hand:  ‘labour  of  love,’  ‘rights  of  suffering  millions,’ 
‘throne  and  altar,’  ‘divine  gift  of  song,’  or  what  else  it  may 
be  ; the  Meeting,  by  its  very  name,  has  environed  itself  in  a 
given  element  of  Commonplace.  But  anon,  behold  how  his 
talking-organs  get  heated,  and  the  friction  vanishes  ; cheers, 
applauses,  with  the  previous  dinner  and  strong  drink,  raise 
him  to  height  of  noblest  temper.  And  now,  as  for  your  vo- 
ciferous Dullard  is  easiest  of  all,  let  him  keep  on  the  soft, 
safe  parallel  course  ; parallel  to  the  Truth,  or  nearly  so ; 
for  Heaven’s  sake,  not  in  contact  with  it  : no  obstacle  will 
meet  him  ; on  the  favouring  given  element  of  Commonplace 
he  triumphantly  careers.  He  is  as  the  ass,  whom  you  took 
and  cast  headlong  into  the  water  : the  water  at  first  threatens 
to  swallow  him  ; but  he  finds,  to  his  astonishment,  that  he  can 
swim  therein,  that  it  is  buoyant  and  bears  him  along.  One 
sole  condition  is  indispensable  : audacity,  vulgarly  called  im- 
pudence. Our  ass  must  commit  himself  to  his  watery  ‘ele- 
ment ; ’ in  free  daring,  strike  forth  his  four  limbs  from  him  : 
then  shall  he  not  drown  and  sink,  but  shoot  gloriously  for- 
ward, and  swim,  to  the  admiration  of  bystanders.  The  ass, 
safe  lauded  on  the  other  bank,  shakes  his  rough  hide,  won- 
derstruck  himself  at  the  faculty  that  lay  in  him,  and  waves 
joyfully  his  long  ears  : so  too  the  public  speaker.  Caglios- 
tro,  as  we  knowr  him  of  old,  is  not  without  a certain  blub- 
bery  oiliness  of  soul  as  of  body,  with  vehemence  lying  under 
it  ; has  the  volublest,  noisiest  tongue  ; and  in  the  audacity 


52 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


vulgarly  called  impudence  is  without  a fellow.  The  Common- 
places of  such  Steel-Arch  Meetings  are  soon  at  his  fiuger- 
euds  : that  same  bhrbbery  oiliness,  and  vehemence  lying  un- 
der it,  once  give  them  an  element  and  stimulus,  are  the  very 
gift  of  a fluent -public  speaker — to  Dupeables. 

Here  too  let  us  mention  a circumstance,  not  insignificant, 
if  true,  which  it  may  readily  enough  be.  In  younger  years, 
Beppo  Balsamo  once,  it  is  recorded,  took  some  pains  to  pro- 
cure, ‘ from  a country  vicar,’  under  quite  false  pretences,  ‘ a 
bit  of  cotton  steeped  in  holy  oils.’  What  could  such  bit  of 
cotton  steeped  in  holy  oils  do  for  him  ? An  Unbeliever  from 
any  basis  of  conviction  the  unbelieving  Beppo  could  never  be  ; 
but  solely  from  stupidity  and  bad  morals.  Might  there  not 
lie  in  that  chaotic  blubbery  nature  of  his,  at  the  bottom  of  all, 
a certain  musk-grain  of  real  Supersti  tious  Belief?  How  won- 
derfully such  a musk-grain  of  Belief  will  flavour,  and  impreg- 
nate with  seductive  odour,  a whole  inward  world  of  Quackery, 
so  that  every  fibre  thereof  shall  smell  musk,  is  well  known. 
No  Quack  can  persuade  like  him  who  has  himself  some  per- 
suasion. Nay,  so  wondrous  is  the  act  of  Believing.  Deception 
and  Self-deception  must,  rigorously  speaking,  co-exist  in  all 
Quacks  ; and  he  perhaps  were  definable  as  the  best  Quack,  in 
whom  the  smallest  musk-grain  of  the  latter  would  sufficiently 
flavour  the  largest  mass  of  the  former. 

But  indeed,  as  we  know  otherwise,  was  there  not  in  Cagli- 
ostro  a certain  pinchbeck  counterfeit  of  all  that  is  golden  and 
good  in  man,  of  somewhat  even  that  is  best  ? Cheers,  and 
illuminated  hieroglyphs,  and  the  ravishment  of  thronging  audi- 
ences, can  make  him  maudlin  ; his  very  wickedness  of  practice 
will  render  him  louder  in  eloquence  of  theory  ; and  ‘ philan- 
thropy,’ ‘divine  science,’  ‘depth  of  unknown  worlds,’  ‘finer 
feelings  of  the  heart,’  and  such  like  shall  draw  tears  from  most 
asses  of  sensibility.  Neither,  indeed,  is  it  of  moment  how/eio 
his  elementary  Commonplaces  are,  how  empty  his  head  is,  so 
he  but  agitate  it  well : thus  a lead-drop  or  two,  put  into  the 
emptiest  dry-bladder,  and  jingled  to  and  fro,  will  make  noise 
enough  ; and  even,  if  skilfully  jingled,  a kind  of  martial  music. 

Such  is  the  Cagliostric  palaver,  that  bewitches  all  manner 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


53 


of  believing  souls.  If  the  ancient  Fathei’  was  named  Chrysos- 
tom, or  Mouth-of-Golcl,  be  the  modern  Quack  named  Pinch* 
beckostom,  or  Mouth-of -Pinchbeck  ; in  an  Age  of  Bronze  such 
metal  finds  elective  affinities.  On  the  whole  too,  it  is  worth 
considering  what  element  your  Quack  specially  works  in  : the 
element  of  Wonder  ! The  Genuine,  be  he  artist  or  artisan, 
works  in  the  finitude  of  the  Known  ; the  Quack  in  the  infini- 
tude of  the  Unknown.  And  then  how,  in  rapidest  progression, 
he  grows  and  advances,  once  start  him  ! Your  name  is  up,  says 
the  adage  ; you  may  lie  in  bed.  A nimbus  of  renown  and 
preternatural  astonishment  envelops  Cagliostro  ; enchants  the 
general  eye.  The  few  reasoning  mortals  scattered  here  and 
there  who  see  through  him,  deafened  in  the  universal  hub- 
bub, shut  their  lips  in  sorrowful  disdain  ; confident  in  the 
grand  remedy,  Time.  The  Enchanter  meanwhile  rolls  on  his 
way  ; what  boundless  materials  of  Deceptibility,  w'hat  greedi- 
ness and  ignorance,  especially  what  prurient  brute-minded- 
ness,  exist  over  Europe  in  this  the  most  deceivable  of  modern 
ages,  are  stirred  up,  fermenting  in  his  behoof.  He  careers 
onward  as  a Comet ; his  nucleus,  of  paying  and  praising 
Dupes,  embraces,  in  long  radius,  what  city  and  province 
he  rests  over  ; his  thinner  tail,  of  wondering  and  curious 
Dupes,  stretches  into  remotest  lands.  Good  Lavater,  from 
amid  his  Swiss  Mountains,  could  say  of  him  : ‘ Cagliostro,  a 
‘ man  ; and  a man  such  as  few  are  ; in  whom,  however,  I am 
‘ not  a believer.  O that  he  were  simple  of  heart  and  humble, 
‘ like  a child  ; that  he  had  feeling  for  the  simplicity  of  the 
‘ Gospel,  and  the  majesty  of  the  Lord  [Hoheit  des  Herrn ) ! 
‘ Who  were  so  great  as  he  ? Cagliostro  often  tells  what  is  not 
‘ true,  and  promises  what  he  does  not  perform.  Yet  do  I no- 
1 wise  hold  his  operations  as  deception,  though  they  are  not 
s what  he  calls  them.’  1 If  good  Lavater  could  so  say  of  him, 
what  must  others  have  been  saying  ! 

Comet-wise,  progressing  with  loud  flourish  of  kettle-drums, 
everywhere  under  the  Steel  Arch,  evoking  spirits,  transmuting 
metals  (to  such  as  could  stand  it),  the  Arch  quack  has  trav- 

1 Lettre  du  Comte  Mirabeau  sur  Cagliostro  et  Lavater , p.  42.  (Berlin, 
1786.) 


54 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


ersed  Saxony  ; at  Leipzig  has  run  athwart  the  hawser  of  a 
brother  quack  (poor  Schropfer,  here  scarcely  recognisable  as 
‘ Scieffert  ’),  and  wrecked  him.  Through  Eastern  Germany, 
Prussian  Poland,  he  progresses ; and  so  now  at  length,  in  the 
spring  of  1780,  has  arrived  at  Petersburg.  His  pavilion  is 
erected  here,  his  flag  prosperously  hoisted : Mason-lodges 
have  long  ears ; he  is  distributing,  as  has  now  become  his 
wont,  Spagyric  Food,  medicine  for  the  poor  ; a train-oil  Piince, 
Potemkin  or  something  like  him,  for  accounts  are  dubious, 
feels  his  chops  water  over  a seraphic  Seraphina : all  goes 
merry,  and  promises  the  best.  But  in  those  despotic  coun- 
tries, the  Police  is  so  arbitrary  ! Cagliostro’s  thaumaturgy 
must  be  overhauled  by  the  Empress’s  Physician  (Mouncey,  a 
hard  Annandale  Scot)  ; is  found  naught,  the  Spagyric  Food 
unfit  for  a dog  : and  so,  the  whole  particulars  of  his  Lordship’s 
conduct  being  put  together,  the  result  is,  that  he  must  leave 
Petersburg,  in  a given  brief  term  of  hour's.  Happy  for  him  that 
it  was  so  brief : scarcely  is  he  gone,  till  the  Prussian  Ambassa- 
dor appears  with  a complaint,  that  he  has  falsely  assumed  the 
Prussian  uniform  at  Borne  ; the  Spanish  Ambassador  with  a 
still  graver  complaint,  that  he  has  forged  bills  at  Cadiz.  How- 
ever, he  is  safe  over  the  marches  : let  them  complain  their  fill. 

In  Courland,  and  in  Poland,  great  things  await  him  ; yet 
not  unalloyed  by  two  small  reverses.  The  famed  Countess 
von  der  Becke,  a born  Fair  Saint,  what  the  Germans  call 
Schone  Seele,  as  yet  quite  young  in  heart  and  experience,  but 
broken  down  with  grief  for  departed  friends, — seeks  to  ques- 
tion the  world-famous  Spirit-summoner  on  the  secrets  of  the 
Invisible  Kingdoms  ; whither,  with  fond  strained  eyes,  she  is 
incessantly  looking.  The  galimatias  of  Pinchbeckostom  can- 
not impose  on  this  pure-minded  simple  woman  : she  recog. 
nises  the  Quack  in  him,  and  in  a printed  Book  makes  known 
the  same  : Mephisto’s  mortifying  experience  with  Margaret, 
as  above  foretold,  renews  itself  for  Cagliostro.  1 At  Warsaw 
too,  though  he  discourses  on  Egyptian  Masonry,  on  Medical 
Philosophy,  and  the  ignorance  of  Doctors,  and  performs  sue- 


Zeitgenossen , No.  15.  § Frau  von  der  Recke. 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


55 


cessfully  with  Pupil  and  Columb,  a certain  ‘Count  M.'  cher- 
ishes more  than  doubt ; which  ends  in  certainty,  in  a written 
Cagliostro  Unmasked.  The  Archquack,  triumphant,  sumptu- 
ously feasted  in  the  city,  has  retired  with  a chosen  set  of  be- 
lievers, with  whom,  however,  was  this  unbelieving  ‘M.’  into 
the  country  ; to  transmute  metals,  to  prepare  perhaps  the 
Pentagon  itself.  All  that  night,  before  leaving  Warsaw,  ‘ our 
dear  Master  ’ had  spent  conversing  with  spirits.  Spirits  ? 
cries  ‘M.  Not  he  ; but  melting  ducats  : he  has  a melted 
mass  of  them  in  this  crucible,  which  now,  by  sleight  of  hand, 
he  would  fain  substitute  for  that  other,  filled,  as  you  all.  saw, 
with  red-lead,  carefully  luted  down,  smelted,  set  to  cool, 
smuggled  from  among  our  hands,  and  now  (look  at  it,  ye 
asses !) — found  broken  and  hidden  among  these  bushes ! 
Neither  does  the  Pentagon,  or  Elixir  of  Life,  or  whatever  it 
was,  prosper  better.  ‘ Our  sweet  Master  enters  into  expos- 
‘ tulation  : ’ ‘ swear’s  by  his  great  God,  and  his  honour,  that 
‘ he  will  finish  the  work  and  make  us  happy.  He  carries  his 
‘ modesty  so  far  as  to  propose  that  he  shall  work  with  chains 
‘ on  his  feet  ; and  consents  to  lose  his  life,  by  the  hands  of  his 
‘ disciples,  if  before  the  end  of  the  fourth  passage,  his  word 
‘ be  not  made  good.  He  lays  his  hand  on  the  ground,  and 
‘ kisses  it ; holds  it  up  to  Heaven,  and  again  takes  God  to 
‘ -witness  that  he  speaks  true  ; calls  on  Him  to  exterminate 
‘ him  if  he  lies.’  A vision  of  the  hoary-bearded  Grand 
Cophta  himself  makes  night  solemn.  In  vain  ! The  sherds 
of  that  broken  red-lead  crucible,  which  pretends  to  stand  here 
unbroken  half-full  of  silver,  he  there,  before  your  eyes : that 
* resemblance  of  a sleeping  child,’  grown  visible  in  the  magic 
cooking  of  our  Elixir,  proves  to  be  an  inserted  rosemary-leaf  ; 
the  Grand  Cophta  cannot  be  gone  too  soon. 

Count  ‘M.,’  balancing  towards  the  opposite  extreme,  even 
thinks  him  inadequate ’as  a Quack. 

‘ Far  from  being  modest,’  says  this  Unmasker,  ‘ he  brags 
beyond  expression,  in  anybody’s  presence,  especially  in 
women’s,  of  the  grand  faculties  he  possesses.  Every  word  is 
an  exaggeration,  or  a statement  you  feel  to  be  improbable. 
The  smallest  contradiction  puts  him  in  fury : his  vanity 


56 


COUNT  CAGL10STR0. 


breaks  through  on  all  sides  ; he  lets  you  give  him  a festival 
that  sets  the  whole  city  a-talking.  Most  impostors  are  supple, 
and  endeavour  to  gain  friends.  This  one,  you  might  say, 
studies  to  appear  arrogant,  to  make  all  men  enemies,  by  his 
rude  injurious  speeches,  by  the  squabbles  and  grudges  he  in- 
troduces "among  friends.’  ! He  quarrels  with  his  coadjutors 
for'  trifles  ; fancies  that  a simple  giving  of  the  lie  will  persuade 
the  public  that  they  are  liars.’  ‘ Schropfer  at  Leipzig  was  far 
cleverer.’  ‘ He  should  get  some  ventriloquist  for  assistant : 
should  read  some  Books  of  Chemistiy  ; study  the  tricks  of 
Philadelphia  and  Comus.’ 1 


Fair  advices,  good  ‘ M.  ; ’ but  do  not  you  yourself  admit 
that  he  has  a ‘ natural  genius  for  deception  ; ’ above  all  things, 
‘ a forehead  of  brass  ( front  cVairairi),  which  nothing  can  dis- 
concert ? ’ To  such  a genius,  and  such  a brow,  Comus  and 
Philadelphia,  and  all  the  ventriloquists  in  Nature,  can  add 
little.  Give  the  Archquack  his  due.  These  arrogancies  of  his 
prove  only  that  he  is  mounted  on  his  high  horse,  and  has  now 
the  world  under  him. 

Such  reverses,  which  will  occur  in  the  lot  of  every  man,  are, 
for  our  Cagliostro,  but  as  specks  in  the  blaze  of  the  meridian 
Sun.  With  undimmed  lustre  he  is,  as  heretofore,  handed  over 
from  this  ‘Prince  P.’  to  that  Prince  Q.  ; among  which  high 
believing  potentates,  what  is  an  incredulous  ‘Count  M.  ?’ 
His  pockets  are  distended  with  ducats  and  diamonds  : he  is 
off  to  Vienna,  to  Frankfort,  to  Strasburg,  by  extra-post ; and 
there  also  -will  work  miracles.  ‘ The  train  he  commonly  took 
with  him,’  says  the  Inquisition-Biographer,  ‘ corresponded  to 
‘ the  rest ; he  always  travelled  post,  with  a considerable  suite  : 
‘ couriers,  lackeys,  body-servants,  domestics  of  all  sorts,  surnp- 
‘ tuously  dressed,  gave  an  ah  of  reality  to  the  high  birth  he 
‘ vaunted.  The  very  liveries  he  got  made  at  Paris  cost 
‘ twenty  louis  each.  Apartments  furnished  in  the  height  of 
‘the  mode;  a magnificent  table,  open  to  numerous  guests ; 
‘ rich  dresses  for  himself  and  his  wife,  corresponded  to  this  lux- 
‘ urious  way  of  life.  His  feigned  generosity  likewise  made  a 

1 Cagliostro  demasque  a Varsovie,  en  1780,  pp.  35  et  seq  (Vails,  178G.) 


CO  LCX  T CA  GLIOSTRO. 


57 


‘ gi'eat  noise.  Often  lie  gratuitously  doctored  the  poor,  and 
"even  gave  them  alms.’  1 

In  the  inside  of  all  this  splendid  travelling  and  lodging 
economy,  are  to  be  seen,  as  we  know,  two  suspicious-looking 
rouged  or  unrouged  figures,  of  a Count  and  a Countess  ; loll- 
ing on  their  cushions  there,  with  a jaded,  haggard  kind  of  as- 
pect ; they  eye  one  another  sullenly,  in  silence,  with  a scarce- 
suppressed  indignation  ; for  each  thinks  the  other  does  not 
work  enough  and  eats  too  much.  Whether  Dame  Lorenza 
followed  her  peculiar  side  of  the  business  with  reluctance  or 
with  free  alacrity,  is  a moot-point  among  Biographers  : not  so 
that,  with  her  choleric  adipose  Archquack,  she  had  a sour  life 
of  it,  and  brawling- abounded.  If  we  look  still  farther  inwards, 
and  try  to  penetrate  the  inmost  self-consciousness,  what  in 
another  man  would  be  called  the  conscience,  of  the  Archquack 
himself,  the  view  gets  most  uncertain ; little  or  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  a thick  fallacious  haze.  Which  indeed  was  the  main 
thing  extant  there.  Much  in  the  Count  Front-d’airain  remains 
dubious  ; yet  hardly  this  : his  want  of  clear  insight  into  any- 
thing, most  of  all  into  his  own  inner  man.  Cunning  in  the 
supreme  degree  he  has  ; intellect-  next  to  none.  Nay,  is  not 
cunning  (couple  it  with  an  esurient  character)  the  natural  con- 
sequence of  defective  intellect  ? It  is  properly  the  vehement 
exercise  of  a short,  poor  vision  ; of  an  intellect  sunk,  bemired  ; 
which  can  attain  to  no  free  vision,  otherwise  it  would  lead  the 
esurient  man  to  be  honest. 

Meanwhile  gleams  of  muddy  light  will  occasionally  visit  all 
mortals  ; every  living  creature  (according  to  Milton,  the  very 
Devil)  has  some  more  or  less  faint  resemblance  of  a Con- 
science ; must  make  inwardly  certain  auricular  confessions, 
absolutions,  professions  of  faith, — were  it  only  that  he  does 
not  yet  quite  loathe,  and  so  proceed  to  hang  himself.  "What 
such  a Porous  as  Cagliostro  might  specially  feel,  and  think, 
and  be,  were  difficult  in  any  case  to  say  ; much  more  when 
contradiction  and  mystification,  designed  and  unavoidable,  so 
involve  the  matter.  One  of  the  most  authentic  documents 


1 Vie  de  Joseph  Balsamo , p.  41. 


58 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


preserved  of  liira  is  the  Picture  of  his  Visage.  An  Effigies 
once  universally  diffused ; in  oil-paint,  aquatint,  marble, 
stucco,  and  perhaps  gingerbread,  decorating  millions  of  apart- 
ments : of  which  remarkable  Effigies  one  copy,  engraved  in 
the  line-manner,  happily  still  lies  here.  Fittest  of  visages  ; 
worthy  to  be  worn  by  the  Quack  of  Quacks  ! A most  porten- 
tous face  of  scoundrelism  : a fat,  snub,  abominable  face  ; dew- 
lapped,  fiat-nosed,  greasy,  full  of  greediness,  sensuality,  ox- 
like obstinacy  ; a forehead  impudent,  refusing  to  be  ashamed ; 
and  then  two  eyes  turned  up  seraphically  languishing,  as  in 
divine  contemplation  and  adoration  ; a touch  of  quiz  too  : on 
the  whole,  perhaps  the  most  perfect  quack-face  produced  by 
the  eighteenth  century.  There  he  sits,  and  seraphically  lan- 
guishes, with  this  epigraph : 

I)c  V Ami  cles  Humains  reconnaissez  les  traits  : 

Tons  ses  jours  sont  marques  'par  de  nouteaux  bienfaits, 

II  prolongs  la  vie,  il  secourt  V indigence  ; 

Le  plaisir  d’etre  utile  est  seul  sa  recompense. 

A probable  conjecture  were,  that  this  same  Theosophy, 
Theophilanthropy,  Solacement  of  the  Poor,  to  which  our 
Archquack  now  more  and  more  betook  himself,  might  serve 
not  only  as  birdlime  for  external  game,  but  also  half-uncon- 
sciously  as  salve  for  assuaging  his  own  spiritual  sores.  Am 
not  I a charitable  man  ? could  the  Archquack  say  : if  I have 
erred  myself,  have  I not,  by  theosophic  unctuous  discourses, 
removed  much  cause  of  error?  The  lying,  the  quackery, 
what  are  these  but  the  method  of  accommodating  yourself  to 
the  temper  of  men  ; of  getting  their  ear,  them  dull  long  ear, 
which  Honesty  had  no  chance  to  catch?  Nay,  at  worst,  is  not 
this  an  unjust  world  ; full  of  nothing  but  beasts  of  prey,  four- 
footed  or  two-footed  ? Nature  has  commanded,  saying  ; Man, 
help  thyself.  Ought  not  the  man  of  my  genius,  since  he  was 
not  born  a Prince,  since  in  these  scandalous  times  he  has  not 
been  elected  a Prince,  to  make  himself  one  ? If  not  by  open 
violence,  for  which  he  wants  military  force,  then  surely  by 
superior  science, — exercised  in  a private  way.  Heal  the  dis- 
eases of  the  Poor,  the  far  deeper  diseases  of  the  Ignorant ; in 


COUNT  CAGLTOSTRO. 


59 


a word,  found  Egyptian  Lodges,  and  get  the  means  of  found- 
ing them. — By  such  soliloquies  can  Count  Front-of-brass 
Pinchbeckostom,  in  rare  atrabiliar  hours  of  self- questioning, 
compose  himself.  For  the  rest,  such  hours  are  rare  : the 
Count  is  a man  of  action  and  digestion,  not  of  self-question- 
ing ; usually  the  day  brings  its  abundant  task  ; there  is  no 
time  for  abstractions,- — of  the  metaphysical  sort. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Count  has  arrived  at  Strasburg ; is 
working  higher  wonders  than  ever.  At  Strasburg,  indeed,  in 
the  year  1783,  occurs  his  apotheosis  ; what  we  can  call  the 
culmination  and  Fourth  Act  of  his  Life-clrama.  He  was  here 
for  a number  of  months;  in  full  blossom  and  radiance,  the 
envy  and  admiration  of  the  world.  In  large  hired  hospitals, 
he  -with  open  drug-bos  containing  ‘ Extract  of  Saturn,’  and 
even  with  open  purse,  relieves  the  suffering  poor  ; unfolds 
himself  lamb-like,  angelic  to  a believing  few,  of  the  rich 
classes  ; turns  a silent  minatory  lion-face  to  unbelievers,  were 
they  of  the  richest.  Medical  miracles  have  in  all  times  been 
common  : but  what  miracle  is  this  of  an  Oriental  or  Occi- 
dental Serene-Excellence  who,  ‘regardless  of  expense,’  em- 
ploys himself  not  in  preserving  game,  but  in  curing  sickness, 
in  illuminating  ignorance  ? Behold  how  he  dives,  at  noonday, 
into  the  infectious  hovels  of  the  mean  ; and  on  the  equipages, 
haughtinesses,  and  even  dinner-invitations  of  the  great,  turns 
only  his  negatory  front-of-brass.  The  Prince  Cardinal  de 
Piohan,  Archbishop  of  Strasburg,  first-class  Peer  of  France,  of 
the  Blood-royal  of  Brittany,  intimates  a wish  to  see  him  ; 
he  answers  : “ If  Monseigneur  the  Cardinal  is  sick,  let  him 
come,  and  I will  cure  him  ; if  he  is  well,  he  has  no  need  of 
me,  I none  of  him.”  1 Heaven,  meanwhile,  has  sent  him  a 
few  disciples : by  a nice  tact,  he  knows  his  man  ; to  one 
speaks  only  of  Spagyric  Medicine,  Downfall  of  Tyranny,  and 
the  Egyptian  Lodge ; to  another,  of  quite  high  matters,  be- 
yond this  diurnal  sphere,  of  visits  from  the  Angel  of  Light, 
visits  from  him  of  Darkness  ; passing  a Statue1  of  Christ,  he 
will  pause  with  a wondrously  accented  plaintive  “ Ha  ! ” as  of 
recognition,  as  of  thousand-years  remembrance  ; and  when 
1 Memoires  de  l’ Abbe  Georcjd , ii.  48. 


60 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


questioned,  sink  into  mysterious  silence.  Is  he  the  Wander 
ing  Jew,  then  ? Heaven  knows  ! At  Strasburg,  in  a word, 
Fortune  not  only  smiles  but  laughs  upon  him  : as  crowning 
favour,  he  finds  here  the  richest,  inflammablest,  most  open- 
handed  Dupe  ever  yet  vouchsafed,  him  ; no  other  than  this 
same  many-titled  Louis  de  Rohan  ; strong  in  whose  favour, 
he  can  laugh  again  at  Fortune. 

Let  the  curious  reader  look  at  him,  for  an  instant  or  two, 
through  the  eyes  of  two  eye-witnesses : the  Abbe  Georgel, 
Prince  Louis’s  diplomatic  Factotum,  and  Herr  Meiners,  the 
Gottingen  Professor  : 

‘Admitted  at  length,’  says  our  too-prosing  Jesuit  Abbe,  ‘to 
the  sanctuary  of  this  JEsculapius,  Prince  Louis  saw,  according 
to  his  own  account,  in  the  incommunicative  man’s  physiog- 
nomy, something  so  dignified,  so  imposing,  that  he  felt  pene- 
trated with  a religious  awe,  and  reverence  dictated  his  ad- 
dress. Their  interview,  which  was  brief,  excited  more  keenly 
than  ever  his  desire  of  farther  acquaintance.  He  attained  it 
at  length : and  the  crafty  empiric  graduated  so  cunningly  his 
words  and  procedure,  that  he  gained,  without  appearing  to 
court  it,  the  Cardinal's' entire  confidence,  and  the  greatest  as- 
cendency over  his  will.  “Your  soul,”  said  he  one  day  to  the 
Prince,  “ is  worthy  of  mine  ; you  deserve  to  be  made  partici- 
pator of  all  my  secrets.”  Such  an  avowal  captivated  the  whole 
faculties,  intellectual  and  moral,  of  a man  who  at  all  times  had 
hunted  after  secrets  of  alchymy  and  botany.  From  this  mo- 
ment their  union  became  intimate  and  public  : Cagliostro 
went  and  established  himself  at  Saverne,  while  his  Eminency 
was  residing  there ; their  solitary  interviews  were  long  and 
frequent.’  * * ‘I  remember  once,  having  learnt,  by  a sure 

Avay,  that  Baron  de  Planta  (his  Eminency’s  man  of  affairs)  had 
frequent,  most  expensive  orgies,  in  the  Archiepiscopal  Palace, 
where  Tokay  wine  ran  like  water,  to  regale  Cagliostro  and  his 
pretended  wife,  I thought  it  my  duty  to  inform  the  Cardinal : 
his  answer  was,  “I  know  it;  I have  even  authorised  him  to 
commit  abuses,  if  he  judge  fit.”  * * ‘ He  came  at  last  to 

have  no  other  will  than  Cagliostro’s  : and  to  such  a length  had 
it  gone,  that  this  sham  Egyptian,  finding  it  good  to  quit  Stras- 
burg for  a time,  and  retire  into  Switzerland,  the  Cardinal,  ap- 
prised thereof,  despatched  his  Secretary  as  well  to  attend  him, 
as  to  obtain  Predictions  from  him  ; such  were  transmitted  in 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


61 


cipher  to  the  Cardinal  on  every  point  he  needed  to  consult 
of.’1— 

‘ Before  ever  I arrived  in  Strasburg  ’ (hear  now  the  as  pros- 
ing Protestant  Professor),  ‘ I knew  almost  to  a certainty 
that  I should  not  see  Count  Cagliostro  ; at  least,  not  get  to 
speak  with  him.  From  many  persons  I had  heard  that  he, 
on  no  account,  received  visits  from  curious  Travellers,  in  a 
state  of  health  ; that  such  as,  without  being  sick,  appeared  in 
liis  audiences  were  sure  to  be  treated  by  him,  in  the  brutallest 
way,  as  spies.’  * * ‘ Nevertheless,  though  I saw  not  this 

new  god  of  Physic  near  at  hand  and  deliberately,  but  only  for 
a moment  as  he  rolled  on  in  a rapid  carriage,  I fancy  myself 
to  be  better  acquainted  with  him  than  many  that  have  lived 
in  his  society  for  months.’  ‘My  unavoidable  conviction  is, 
that  Count  Cagliostro,  from  of  old,  has  been  more  of  a cheat 
than  an  enthusiast ; and  also  that  he  continues  a cheat  to  ihis 

day- 

‘As  to  his  country  I have  ascertained  nothing.  Some  make 
him  a Spaniard,  others  a Jew,  or  an  Italian,  or  a Bagusan  ; or 
even  an  Arab,  who  had  persuaded  some  Asiatic  Prince  to  send 
his  son  to  travel  in  Europe,  and  then  murdered  the  youth, 
and  taken  possession  of  his  treasures.  As  the  self-styled 
Count  speaks  badly  all  the  languages  you  hear  from  him,  and 
has  most  likely  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  under  feigned 
names  far  from  home,  it  is  probable  enough  no  sure  trace  of 
his  origin  may  ever  be  discovered.’ 

‘ On  his  first  appearance  in  Strasburg  he  connected  himself 
with  the  Freemasons  ; but  only  till  he  felt  strong  enough  to 
stand  on  his  own  feet : he  soon  gained  the  favour  of  the  Prm- 
tor  and  the  Cardinal  and  through  these  the  favour  of  the  Court, 
to  such  a degree  that  his  adversaries  cannot  so  much  as  think 
of  overthrowing  him.  With  the  Praetor  and  Cardinal  he  is  said 
to  demean  himself  as  with  persons  who  were  under  boundless 
obligation  to  him,  to  whom  he  was  under  none  : the  equipage 
of  the  Cardinal  he  seems  to  use  as  freely  as  his  own.  He 
pretends  that  he  can  recognise  Atheists  or  Blasphemers  by  the 
smell ; that  the  vapour  from  such  throws  him  into  epileptic 
fits  ; into  which  sacred  disorder  he,  like  a true  juggler,  has  the 
art  of  falling  when  he  likes.  In  public  he  no  longer  vaunts  of 
rule  over  spirits,  or  other  magical  arts  ; but  I know,  even  as 
certainly,  that  he  still  pretends  to  evoke  spirits,  and  by  their 

1 Georgel,  ubi  supra. 


62 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


help  and  apparition  to  heal  diseases,  as  I know  this  other  fact, 
that  he  understands  no  more  of  the  human  system,  or  the  nab 
ure  of  its  diseases,  or  the  use  of  the  commonest  therapeutic 
methods,  than  any  other  quack.’ 

‘ According  to  the  credi blest  accounts  of  persons  who  have 
long  observed  him,  he  is  a man  to  an  inconceivable  degree 
choleric  ( heftig ),  heedless,  inconstant  ; and  therefore  doubtless 
it  was  the  happiest  idea  he  ever  in  his  whole  life  came  upon, 
this  of  making  himself  inaccessible  ; of  raising  the  most  ob- 
stinate reserve  as  a bulwark  round  him  ; without  which  pre- 
caution he  must  long  ago  have  been  caught  at  fault.’ 

‘ For  his  own  labour  he  takes  neither  payment  nor  present : 
when  presents  are  made  him  of  such  a sort  as  cannot  without 
offence  be  refused,  he  forthwith  returns  some  counter-present, 
of  equal  or  still  higher  value.  Nay  he  not  only  takes  nothing 
from  his  patients,  but  frequently  admits  them,  months  long, 
to  his  house  and  his  table,  and  will  not  consent  to  the  small- 
est recompense.  With  all  this  disinterestedness  (conspicuous 
enough,  as  you  may  suppose),  he  lives  in  an  expensive  way, 
plays  deep,  loses  almost  constantly  to  ladies  ; so  that,  ac- 
cording to  the  very  lowest  estimate,  he  must  require  at  least 
20,000  livres  a year.  The  darkness  which  Cagliostro  has, 
an  purpose,  spread  over  the  sources  of  his  income  and  outlay, 
contributes  even  more  than  his  munificence  and  miraculous 
cures  to  the  notion  that  he  is  a divine  extraordinary  man,  who 
has  watched  Nature  in  her  deepest  operations,  and  among 
other  secrets  stolen  that  of  Gold-making  from  her.  ’ * * 

‘ With  a mixture  of  sorrow  and  indignation  over  our  age,  I 
have  to  record  that  this  man  has  found  acceptance,  not  only 
among  the  great,  who  from  of  old  have  been  the  easiest  be- 
witched by  such,  but  also  with  many  of  the  learned,  and  even 
physicians  and  naturalists.’ 1 

Halcyon  days  ; only  too  good  to  continue ! All  glory  runs 
its  course  ; has  its  culmination,  and  then  its  often  precipitous 
decline.  Eminency  Rohan,  with  fervid  temper  and  small 
instruction,  perhaps  of  dissolute,  certainly  of  dishonest  man- 
ners, in  whom  the  faculty  of  Wonder  had  attained  such 
prodigious  development,  was  indeed  the  very  stranded  whale 
for  jackals  to  feed  on:  unhappily,  however,  no  one  jackal 
could  long  be  left  in  solitary  possession  of  him.  A sharper- 

1 Meiners  : Briefe  uber  die  Schweiz  (as  quoted  in  Mirabeau). 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


03 


toothed  slie-jackal  now  strikes  in  ; bites  infinitely  deeper  ; 
stranded  whale  and  he-jackal  both  are  like  to  become  her 
prey.  A young  French  Mantuamaker,  ‘ Countess  de  La  Motte- 
Yalois,  descended  from  Henri  H.  by  the  bastard  line,’  with- 
out Extract  of  Saturn,  Egyptian  Masonry,  or  any  verbal  con- 
ference with  Dark  Angels, — has  genius  enough  to  get  her 
finger  in  the  Archquack’s  rich  Hermetic  Projection,  appropri- 
ate the  golden  proceeds,  and  even  finally  break  the  crucible. 
Prince  Cardinal  Louis  de  Bohan  is  off  to  Paris,  under  her 
guidance,  to  see  the  long-invisible  Queen,  or  Queen’s  Appari- 
tion ; to  pick  up  the  Pose  in  the  Garden  of  Trianon,  dropt  by 
her  fair  sham-royal  hand  ; and  then — descend  rapidly  to  the 
Devil,  and  drag  Cagliostro  along  with  him. 

The  intelligent  reader  observes,  we  have  now  arrived  at 
that  stupendous  business  of  the  Diamond  Necklace : into  the 
dark  complexities  of  which  we  need  not  here  do  more  than 
glance  : who  knows  but,  next  month,  our  Historical  Chapter, 
written  specially  on  this  subject,  may  itself  see  the  light? 
Enough,  for  the  present,  if  we  fancy  vividly  the  poor  whale 
Cardinal,  so  deep  in  the  adventure  that  Grand-Cophtic  ‘ pre- 
dictions transmitted  in  cipher’  will  no  longer  illuminate  him  ; 
but  the  Grand  Cophta  must  leave  all  masonic  or  other  busi- 
ness, happily  begun  in  Naples,  Bourdeaux,  Lyons,  and  come 
personally  to  Paris  with  predictions  at  first  hand.  ‘ The  new 
‘ Calchas,’  says  poor  Abbe  Georgel,  ‘ must  have  read  the  en- 
‘ trails  of  his  victim  ill ; for,  on  issuing  from  these  communi- 
‘ cations  with  the  Angel  of  Light  and  of  Darkness,  he  proph- 
esied to  the  Cardinal  that  this  happy  correspondence,’ 
with  the  Queen’s  Similitude,  ‘ would  place  him  at  the  highest 
‘ point  of  favour  ; that  his  influence  in  the  Government  wrould 
‘ soon  become  paramount ; that  he  would  use  it  for  the  prop- 
‘ agation  of  good  principles,  the  glory  of  the  Supreme  Being, 

‘ and  the  happiness  of  Frenchmen.’  The  new  Calchas  was 
indeed  at  fault : but  how  could  he  be  otherwise  ? Let  these 
high  Queen’s  favours,  and  all  terrestrial  shiftings  of  the  wind, 
turn  as  they  will,  his  reign,  he  can  well  see,  is  appointed  to 
be  temporary  ; in  the  mean  while,  Tokay  flows  like  water  ; 
prophecies  of  good,  not  of  evil,  are  the  method  to  keep  it 


64 


COUNT  CAGL10STR0. 


flowing.  Tlius  if,  for  Circe  de  La  Motte-Valois,  the  Egyptian 
Masonry  is  but  a foolish  enchanted  cup  wherewith  to  turn 
her  fat  Cardinal  into  a quadruped,  she  herself  converse-wise, 
for  the  Grand  Cophta,  is  one  who  must  ever  fodder  said 
quadruped  with  Court  Hopes,  and  stall-feed  him  fatter 
and  fatter, — it  is  expected,  for  the  knife  of  both  parties. 
They  are  mutually  useful  ; live  in  peace,  and  Tokay  festivity, 
though  mutually  suspicious,  mutually  contemptuous.  So 
stand  matters,  through  the  spring  and  summer  months  of  the 
year  1785. 

But  fancy  next  that, — while  Tokay  is  flowing  within  doors, 
and  abroad  Egyptian  Lodges  are  getting  founded,  and  gold 
and  glory,  from  Paris,  as  from  other  cities,  supematurally 
coming  in, — the  latter  end  of  August  has  arrived,  and  with  it 
Commissary  Chesnon,  to  lodge  the  whole  unholy  Brother- 
hood, from  Cardinal  down  to  Sham-queen,  in  separate  cells  of 
the  Bastille  ! There,  for  nine  long  months,  let  them  howl  and 
wail,  in  bass  or  in  treble  ; and  emit  the  falsest  of  false  ill  - 
moires  ; among  which  that  Memoire  pour  le  Comte  de  CaglioStro, 
en  presence  des  autres  Co- Accuses,  with  its  Trebisond  Acharats, 
Scherifs  of  Mecca,  and  Nature’s  unfortunate  Child,  all  gravely 
printed  with  French  types  in  the  year  1786,  may  well  bear 
the  palm.  Fancy  that  Necklace  or  Diamonds  will  nowhere 
unearth  themselves  ; that  the  Tuileries  Palace  sits  struck  with 
astonishment,  and  speechless  chagrin  ; that  Paris,  that  all 
Europe,  is  ringing  with  the  wonder.  That  Count  Front-of- 
brass  Pinchbeckostom,  confronted,  at  the  judgment-bar,  with 
a shrill  glib  Circe  de  La  Motte,  has  need  of  all  his  eloquence  ; 
that  nevertheless  the  Front-of-brass  prevails,  and  exasperated 
Circe  ‘ throws  a candlestick  at  him.'  Finally,  that  on  the  31st 
of  May  1786,  the  assembled  Parliament  of  Paris,  ‘at  nine  in 
the  evening,  after  a sitting  of  eighteen  hours,’  has  solemnly 
pronounced  judgment  : and  now  that  Cardinal  Louis  is  gone 
‘ to  his  estates  ; ’ Countess  de  La  Motte  is  shaven  on  the  head, 
branded,  with  red-hot  iron,  ‘ Y ’ ( Voleuse ) on  both  shoulders, 
and  confined  for  life  to  the  Salpstriere  ; her  Count  wandering 
uncertain,  with  diamonds  for  sale,  over  the  British  Empire  ; 
that  the  Sieur  de  Villette,  for  handling  a queen's  pen.  is  ban- 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


05 


iskecl  forever ; the  too  queenlike  Demoiselle  Gay  d’Oliva 
(with  her  unfathered  infant)  ‘ put  out  of  Court  ; ’ — and  Grand 
Copkta  Cagliostro  liberated,  indeed,  but  pillaged,  and  ordered 
forthwith  to  take  himself  away.  His  disciples  illuminate  their 
windows  ; but  what  does  that  avail  ? Commissary  Cliesnon, 
Bastille-Governor  De  Launay  cannot  recollect  the  least  par- 
ticular of  those  priceless  effects,  those  gold-rouleaus,  repeat- 
ing watches  of  his  : he  must  even  retire  to  Passy  that  very 
night  ; and  two  days  afterwards,  sees  nothing  for  it  but  Bou- 
logne and  England.  Thus  does  the  miserable  pickleherring 
tragedy  of  the  Diamond  Necklace  wind  itself  up,  and  wind 
Cagliostro  once  more  to  inhospitable  shores. 

Arrived  here,  and  lodged  tolerably  in  ‘ Sloan  Street,  Knights- 
bridge,’  by  the  aid  of  a certain  Mr.  Swinton,  whilom  broken 
Wine-merchant,  now  Apothecary,  to  whom  he  carries  intro- 
ductions, he  can  drive  a small  trade  in  Egyptian  pills,  such  as 
one  e sells  in  Paris  at  thirty-shillings  the  dram  ; ’ in  unctuously 
discoursing  to  Egyptian  Lodges  ; in  ‘ giving  public  audiences 
as  at  Strasburg,’ — if  so  be  any  one  will  bite.  At  all  events, 
he  can,  by  the  aid  of  amanuensis-disciples,  compose  and  pub- 
lish his  Letlre  au  Peuple  Anglais  ; setting  forth  his  unheard-of 
generosities,  unheard-of  injustices  suffered,  in  a world  not 
worthy  of  him,  at  the  hands  of  English.  Lawyers,  Bastille- 
Governors,  French  Counts,  and  others  ; his  Leltre  aux  Fran- 
pais,  singing  to  the  same  tune,  predicting  too,  what  many  in- 
spired Editors  had  already  boded,  that  ‘ the  Bastille  would  be 
‘ destroyed,’  and  ‘a  King  would  come  wrho  should  govern  by 
‘ States-Geueral.’  But,  alas,  the  shafts  of  Criticism  are  busy 
with  him  ; so  many  hostile  eyes  look  towards  him  : the  world, 
in  short,  is  getting  too  hot  for  him.  Mark,  nevertheless,  how 
the  brow  of  brass  quails  not ; nay  a touch  of  his  old  poetic 
Humour,  even  in  this  sad  crisis,  unexpectedly  unfolds  itself. 
One  de  Morande,  Editor  of  a Gourrier  de  V Europe  published 
here  at  that  period,  has  for  some  time  made  it  his  distinction 
to  be  the  foremost  of  Cagliostro’s  enemies.  Cagliostro,  en- 
during much  in  silence,  happens  once,  in  some  ‘ public  audi- 
ence,’ to  mention  a practice  he  had  •witnessed  in  Arabia  the 
Stony  : the  people  there,  it  seems,  are  in  the  habit  of  fatten- 


66 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


ing  a few  pigs  annually,  on  provender  mixed  with  arsenic  ; 
whereby  the  whole  pig-carcass  by  and  by  becomes,  so  to  speak, 
arsenical ; the  arsenical  pigs  are  then  let  loose  into  the  woods  ; 
eaten  by  lions,  leopards  and  other  ferocious  creatures  ; which 
latter  naturally  all  die  in  consequence,  and  so  the  woods  are 
cleared  of  them.  This  adroit  practice  the  Sieur  Morande 
thought  a proper  subject  for  banter  ; and  accordingly,  in  his 
Seventeenth  and  two  following  Numbers,  made  merry  enough 
with  it.  Whereupon  Count  Front-of-brass,  whose  patience 
has  limits,  writes  as  Advertisement  (still  to  be  read  in  old 
files  of  the  Public  Advertiser,  under  date  September  3,  1786), 
a French  Letter,  not  without  causticity  and  aristocratic  dis- 
dain ; challenging  the  witty  Sieur  to  breakfast  with  him,  for 
the  9th  of  November  next,  in  the  face  of  the  world,  on  an 
actual  Sucking  Pig,  fattened  by  Cagliostro,  but  cooked,  carved 
and  selected  from  by  the  Sieur  Morande, — under  bet  of  Five 
Thousand  Guineas  sterling  that,  next  morning  thereafter,  he 
the  Sieur  Morande  shall  be  dead,  and  Count  Cagliostro  be 
alive  ! The  poor  Sieur  durst  not  cry,  Done  ; and  backed-out 
of  the  transaction,  making  wry  faces.  Thus  does  a kind  of 
red  coppery  splendour  encircle  our  Archquack’s  decline  ; thus 
with  brow  of  brass,  grim  smiling,  does  he  meet  his  destiny. 

But  suppose  we  should  now,  from  these  foreign  scenes 
turn  homewards,  for  a moment,  into  the  native  alley  in 
Palermo  ! Palermo,  with  its  dinginess,  its  mud  or  dust,  the 
old  black  Balsamo  House,  the  very  beds  and  chairs,  all  are 
still  standing  there  ; and  Beppo  has  altered  so  strangely,  has 
wandered  so  far  away.  Let  us  look  ; for  happily  we  have  the 
fairest  opportunity. 

In  April  1787,  Palermo  contained  a Traveller  of  a thou- 
sand ; no  other  than  the  great  Goethe  from  Weimar.  At 
his  Table-d’hote  he  heard  much  of  Cagliostro  ; at  length 
also  of  a certain  Palermo  Lawyer,  who  had  been  engaged 
by  the  French  Government  to  draw  up  an  authentic  gene- 
alogy and  memoir  of  him.  This  Lawyer,  and  even  the  rude 
draft  of  his  Memoir,  he  with  little  difficulty  gets  to  see  ; in- 
quires next  whether  it  were  not  possible  to  see  the  actual 
Balsamo  Family,  whereof  it  appears  the  mother  and  a wid- 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


67 


owed  sister  still  survive.  For  tliis  matter,  however,  the 
Lawyer  can  do  nothing  ; only  refer  him  to  his  Clerk  ; who 
again  starts  difficulties : To  get  at  those  genealogic  Docu- 

ments he  has  been  obliged  to  invent  some  story  of  a Govern- 
ment-Pension being  in  the  wind  for  those  poor  Balsamos ; 
and  now  that  the  whole  matter  is  finished,  and  the  Paper 
sent  off  to  France,  has  nothing  so  much  at  heart  as  to  keep 
out  of  their  wray  : 


* So  said  the  Clerk.  However,  as  I could  not  abandon  my 
purpose,  we  after  some  study  concerted  that  I should  give 
myself  out  for  an  Englishman,  and  bring  the  family  news  of 
Cagliostro,  who  had  lately  got  out  of  the  Bastille,  and  gone 
to  London. 

‘ At  the  appointed  hour,  it  might  be  three  in  the  afternoon, 
we  set  forth.  The  house  lay  in  the  corner  of  an  Alley,  not 
far  from  the  main-street  named  II  Casaro.  We  ascended  a 
miserable  staircase,  and  came  straight  into  the  kitchen.  A 
woman  of  middle  stature  broad  and  stout,  yet  not  corpulent, 
stood  busy  washing  the  kitchen  dishes.  She  was  decently 
dressed  ; and,  on  our  entrance,  turned  up  the  one  end  of  her 
apron,  to  hide  the  soiled  side  from  us.  She  joyfully  recog- 
nised my  conductor,  and  said  : “ Signor  Giovanni,  do  you 
bring  us  good  news  ? Have  you  made  out  anything  ? ” 

‘He  answered  : “In  our  affair,  nothing  yet ; but  here  is  a 
Stranger  that  brings  a salutation  from  your  Brother,  and  can 
tell  you  how  he  is  at  present.” 

* The  salutation  I was  to  bring  stood  not  in  our  agreement : 
meanwhile,  one  wray  or  other,  the  introduction  w7as  accom- 
plished. “You  know  my  Brother?”  inquired  she. — “All 
Europe  knows  him,”  answered  I;  “and  I fancied  it  would 
gratify  you  to  hear  that  he  is  now  in  safety  and  well ; as,  of 
late,  no  doubt  you  have  been  anxious  about  him.”— “ Step  in,” 
said  she,  “ I will  follow  you  directly  ; ” and  with  the  Clerk  I 
entered  the  room. 

‘ It  was  large  and  high  ; and  might,  with  us,  have  passed 
for  a saloon  ; it  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  almost  the  sole  lodging 
of  the  family.  A single  window  lighted  the  large  walls,  which 
had  once  had  colour  ; and  on  which  were  black  pictures  of 
saints,  in  gilt  frames,  hanging  round.  Two  large  beds,  with- 
out curtains,  stood  at  one  wall ; a brown  press,  in  the  form  of 
a writing-desk,  at  the  other.  Old  rush-bottomed  chairs,  the 


68 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


backs  of  which  had  once  been  gilt,  stood  by  ; and  the  tiles  of 
the  floor  were  in  many  places  worn  deep  into  hollows.  For 
the  rest,  all  was  cleanly  ; and  we  approached  the  family,  which 
sat  assembled  at  the  one  window,  in  the  other  end  of  the 
apartment. 

‘ Whilst  my  guide  was  explaining,  to  the  old  Widow  Balsa- 
mo,  the  purpose  of  our  visit,  and  by  reason  of  her  deafness 
had  to  repeat  his  words  several  times  aloud,  I had  time  to 
observe  the  chamber  and  the  other  persons  in  it.  A girl  of 
about  sixteen,  well  formed,  whose  features  had  become  un- 
certain by  small-pox,  stood  at  the  window  ; beside  her  a young 
man,  whose  disagreeable  look,  deformed  by  the  same  disease, 
also  struck  me.  In  an  easy-chair,  right  before,  the  window, 
sat  or  rather  lay  a sick,  much  disshapen  person,  who  appeared 
to  labour  under  a sort  of  lethargy. 

‘ My  guide  having  made  himself  understood,  we  were  in- 
vited to  take  seats.  The  old  woman  put  some  questions  to  me  ; 
which,  however,  I had  to  get  interpreted  before  I could  answer 
them,  the  Sicilian  dialect  not  being  quite  at  my  command. 

‘ Meanwhile  I looked  at  the  aged  widow  with  satisfaction.. 
She  was  of  middle  stature,  but  well  shaped  ; over  her  regular 
features,  which  age  had  not  deformed,  lay  that  sort  of  peace 
usual  with  people  that  have  lost  their  hearing  ; the  tone  of  her 
voice  was  soft  and  agreeable. 

‘ I answered  her  questions  ; and  m3'  answers  also  had  again 
to  be  interpreted  for  her. 

‘ The  slowness  of  our  conversation  gave  me  leisure  to 
measure  my  words.  I told  her  that  her  son  had  been  acquit- 
ted in  France,  and  was  at  present  in  England,  where  he  met 
with  good  reception.  Her  joy,  which  she  testified  at  these 
tidings,  was  mixed  with  expressions  of  a heartfelt  piety ; and 
as  she  now  spoke  a little  louder  and  slower,  I could  the  better 
understand  her. 

‘ In  the  mean  time,  the  daughter  had  entered ; and  taken 
her  seat  beside  my  conductor,  who  repeated  to  her  faithfully 
what  I had  been  narrating.  She  had  put  on  a clean  apron  ; 
had  set  her  hair  in  order  under  the  net-cap.  The  more  I 
looked  at  her,  and  compared  her  with  her  mother,  the  more 
striking  became  the  difference  of  the  two  figures.  A vivacious, 
healthy  Sensualism (Sinnlichlceit)  beamed  forth  from  the  whole 
structure  of  the  daughter  : she  might  be  a woman  of  about 
forty.  With  brisk  blue  eyes,  she  looked  sharply  round  ; yet 
in  her  look  I could  trace  no  suspicion.  When  she  sat,  her 
figure  promised  more  height  than  it  showed  when  she  rose  : her 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


69 


posture  was  determinate,  sire  sat  with,  her  body  leaned  for- 
wards, the  hands  resting  on  the  knees.  For  the  rest,  her 
physiognomy,  more  of  the  snubby  than  the  sharp  sort,  remind- 
ed me  of  her  Brother’s  Portrait,  familiar  to  us  in  engravings. 
She  asked  me  several  things  about  my  journey,  my  purpose 
to  see  Sicily  ; and  was  sure  I would  come  back,  and  celebrate 
the  Feast  of  Saint  Rosalia  with  them. 

‘ As  the  grandmother,  meanwhile,  had  again  put  some  ques- 
tions to  me,  and  I was  busy  answering  her,  the  daughter  kept 
speaking  to  my  companion  half-aloud,  yet  so  that  I could  take 
occasion  to  ask  what  it  was.  He  answered  : Signora  Capitum- 
rnino  was  telling  him  that  her  Brother  owed  her  fourteen  gold 
Ounces  ; on  his  sudden  departure  from  Palermo,  she  had  re- 
deemed several  things  for  him  that  were  in  pawn  ; but  never 
since  that  day  had  either  heard  from  him,  or  got  money  or 
any  other  help,  though  it  was  said  he  had  great  riches,  and 
made  a princely  outlay.  Now  would  not  I perhaps  undertake 
on  my  return,  to  remind  him,  in  a handsome  way,  of  the  debt, 
and  procure,  some  assistance  for  her  ; nay  would  I not  carry  a 
Letter  with  me,  or  at-  all  events  get  it  carried  ? I offered  to 
do  so.  She  asked  where  I lodged,  whither  she  must  send  the 
Letter  to  me  ? I avoided  naming  my  abode,  and  offered  to 
call  next  day  towards  night,  and  receive  the  Letter  myself. 

‘ She  thereupon  described  to  me  her  untoward  situation: 
how-she  was  a widow  with  three  children,  of  whom  the  one 
girl  was  getting  educated  in  a convent,  the  other  was  here 
present,  and  her  son  just  gone  out  to  his  lesson.  How,  be- 
side these  three  children,  she  had  her  mother  to  maintain  ; and 
moreover  out  of  Christian  love  had  taken  the  unhappy  sick 
person  there  to  her  house,  whereby  the  burden  was  heavier : 
how  all  her  industry  would  scarcely  suffice  to  get  necessaries 
for  herself  and  hers.  She  knew  indeed  that  God  did  not 
leave  good  works  unrewarded  ; yet  must  sigh  very  sore  under 
the  load  she  had  long  borne. 

‘ The  young  people  mixed  in  the  dialogue,  and  our  conver- 
sation grew  livelier.  While  speaking  with  the  others,  I could 
hear  the  good  old  widow  ask  her  daughter  : If  I belonged, 
then,  to  their  holy  Religion  ? I remarked  also  that  the  daugh- 
ter strove,  in  a prudent  way,  to  avoid  an  answer  ; signifying 
to  her  mother,  so  far  as  I could  take  it  up : That  the  Stranger 
seemed  to  have  a kind  feeling  towards  them  ; and  that  it  was 
not  well-bred  to  question  any  one  straightway  on  that  point. 

‘ As  they  heard  that  I was  soon  to  leave  Palermo,  they  be- 
came more  pressing,  and  importuned  me  to  come  back ; es* 


70 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTRO. 


pecially  vaunting  the  paradisiac  days  of  the  Rosalia  Festival, 
the  like  of  which  was  not  to  be  seen  and  tasted  in  all  the 
world. 

‘ My  attendant,  who  had  long  been  anxious  to  get  off,  at 
last  put  an  end  to  the  interview  by  his  gestures  ; and  I prom- 
ised to  return  on  the  morrow  evening,  and  take  the  Letter. 
My  attendant,  expressed  his  joy  that  all  had  gone  off  so  well, 
and  we  parted  mutually  content. 

‘ You  may  fancy  the  impression  this  poor  and  pious,  well- 
dispositioned  family  had  made  on  me.  My  curiosity  was  sat- 
isfied ; but  their  natural  and  worthy  bearing  had  raised  an 
interest  in  me,  Avhich  reflection  did  but  increase. 

‘ Forthwith,  however,  there  arose  for  me  anxieties  about  the 
following  day.  It  was  natural  that  this  appearance  of  mine, 
which,  at  the  first  moment  had  taken  them  by  surprise,  should, 
after  my  departure,  awaken  many  reflections.  By  the  Gene- 
alogy I knew  that  several  others  of  the  family  were  in  life  : 
it  was  natural  that  they  should  call  their  friends  together, 
and  in  the  presence  of  all,  get  those  things  repeated  which, 
the  day  before,  they  had  heard  from  me  with  admiration.  My 
object  was  attained;  there  remained  nothing  more  than,  in 
some  good  fashion,  to  end  the  adventure.  I accordingly  re- 
paired next  day,  directly  after  dinner,  alone  to  their  house. 
They  expressed  surprise  as  I entered.  The  Letter  was  not 
ready  yet,  they  said ; and  some  of  their  relations  "wished  to 
make  my  acquaintance,  who  towards  night  would  be  there. 

‘ I answered,  that  Laving  to  set  off  to-morrow  morning,  and 
visits  still  to  pay,  and  packing  to  transact,  I had  thought  it 
better  to  come  early  than  not  at  all. 

‘Meanwhile  the  son  entered,  whom  yesterday  I had  not 
seen.  He  resembled  his  sister  in  size  and  figure.  He  brought 
the  Iietter  they  were  to  give  me  ; he  had,  as  is  common  in 
those  parts,  got  it  written  out  of  doors,  by  one  of  their  No- 
taries that  sit  publicly  to  do  such  things.  The  young  man 
had  a still,  melancholy  and  modest  aspect  ; inquired  after  his 
Uncle,  asked  about  his  riches  and  outlays,  and  added  sorrow- 
fully, Why  had  he  so  forgotten  his  kindred  ? “ It  were  our 

greatest  fortune,”  continued  he,  “should  he  once  return 
hither,  and  take  notice  of  us  : but,” continued  he,  “how  came 
he  to  let  you  know  that  he  had  relatives  in  Palermo  ? It  is 
said,  he  everywhere  denies  us,  and  gives  himself  out  for  a 
man  of  great  birth.”  I answered  this  question,  which  had 
now  arisen  by  the  imprudence  of  my  Guide  at  our  first  en- 
trance, in  such  sort  as  to  make  it  seem  that  the  Uncle,  though 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTBO. 


71 


be  might  have  reasons  for  concealing  his  birth  from  the  pub- 
lic, did  yet,  towards  his  friends  and  acquaintance,  keep  it  no 
secret. 

‘ The  sister,  who  had  come  up  during  this  dialogue,  and  by 
the  presence  of  her  brother,  perhaps  also  by  the  absence  of 
her  yesterday’s  friend,  had  got  more  courage,  began  also  to 
speak  with  much  grace  and  liveliness.  They  begged  me  ear- 
nestly to  recommend  them  to  their  Uncle,  if  I wrote  to  him  ; 
and  not  less  earnestly,  when  once  I should  have  made  this 
journey  through  the  Island,  to  come  back  and  pass  the  Ro- 
salia Festival  with  them. 

‘ The  mother  spoke  in  accordance  with  her  children.  “Sir,” 
said  she,  “ though  it  is  not  seemly,  as  I have  a grown  daugh- 
ter, to  see  stranger  gentlemen  in  my  house,  and  one  has  cause 
to  guard  against  both  danger  and  evil-speaking,  yet  shall  you 
ever  be  welcome  to  us,  when  you  return  to  this  city.” 

‘“O  yes,”  answered  the  young  ones,  “we  will  lead  the 
Gentleman  all  round  the  Festival  ; we  will  show  him.  every- 
thing, get  a place  on  the  scaffolds,  where  the  grand  sights  are 
seen  best.  What  will  he  say  to  the  great  Chariot,  and  more 
than  all,  to  the  glorious  Illumination  ! ” 

‘ Meanwhile  the  Grandmother  had  read  the  Letter  and  again 
read  it.  Hearing  that  I was  about  to  take  leave,  she  arose, 
and  gave  me  the  folded  sheet.  “Tell  my  son,”  began  she 
with  a noble  vivacity,  nay  with  a sort  of  inspiration,  “Tell 
my  son  how  happy  the  news  have  made  me,  which  you  brought 
from  him  ! Tell  him  that  I clasp  him  to  my  heart  — here  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  asunder,  and  pressed  them  again  to- 
gether on  her  breast — “that  I daily  beseech  God  and  our 
Holy  Virgin  for  him  in  prayer  ; that  I give  him  and  his  wife 
my  blessing  ; and  that  I wish  before  my  end  to  see  him  again, 
with  these  eyes,  which  have  shed  so  many  tears  for  him.” 

‘The  peculiar  grace  of  the  Italian  tongue  favoured  the 
choice  and  noble  arrangement  of  these  words,  which  more- 
over were  accompanied  with  lively  gestures,  wherewith  that 
nation  can  add  such  a charm  to  spoken  words. 

‘ I took  my  leave,  not  without  emotion.  They  all  gave  me 
their  hands  ; the  children  showed  me  out  ; and  as  I went 
down-stairs,  they  jumped  to  the  balcony  of  the  kitchen-win- 
dow, which  projected  over  the  street  ; called  after  me,  threw 
me  salutes,  and  repeated,  that  I must  in  nowise  forget  to  come 
back.  I saw  them  still  on  the  balcony,  when  I turned  the 
comer.’ 1 

1 Goetlie’s  Werke  ( ItalidniscJie  Beise),  xxviii.  146. 


72 


COUNT  CAGL10STR0. 


Poor  old  Felicita,  and  must  thy  pious  prayers,  thy  motherly 
blessings,  and  so  many  tears  shed  by  those  old  eyes,  be  ail  in 
vain  ! To  thyself,  in  any  case,  they  were  blessed. — As  for  the 
Signor  Capitummino,  with  her  three  fatherless  children,  shall 
we  not  hope  at  least,  that  the  fourteen  gold  Ounces  were  paid, 
by  a sure  hand,  and  so  her  heavy  burden,  for  some  space, 
lightened  a little  ? Alas,  no,  it  would  seem  ; owing  to  acci- 
dents, not  even  that ! 1 

Count  Cagliostro,  all  this  while,  is  rapidly  proceeding  with 
his  Fifth  Act ; the  red  coppery  splendour  darkens  more  and 
more  into  final  gloom.  Some  boiling  muddleheads  of  a dupe- 
able sort  there  still  are  in  England  : Popish-Riot  Lord  George, 
for  instance,  will  walk  with  him  to  Count  Barthelemy’s,  or 
d’Adhemar’s ; and,  in  bad  French  and  worse  rhetoric,  abuse 
the  Queen  of  France  : but  what  does  it  profit  ? Lord  George 
must  one  day  (after  noise  enough)  revisit  Newgate  for  it ; and 
in  the  mean  while,  hard  words  pay  no  scores.  Apothecary 
Swinton  begins  to  get  wearisome  ; French  spies  look  omin- 
ously in  ; Egyptian  Pills  are  slack  of  sale  ; the  old  vulturous 
Attorney-host  anew  scents  carrion,  is  bestirring  itself  anew  : 
Count  Cagliostro,  in  the  May  of  1787,  must  once  more  leave 
England.  But  whither  ? Ah,  whither  ! At  Bale,  at  Bienne, 
over  Switzerland,  the  game  is  up.  At  Aix  in  Savoy,  there  are 
baths,  but  no  gudgeons  in  them  : At  Turin,  his  Majesty  of 
Sardinia  meets  you  with  an  order  to  begone  on  the  instant. 
A like  fate  from  the  Emperor  Joseph  at  Rover edo  ; — before 
the  Liber  memorialis  de  Caleostro  dam  esset  Robor.etti  could  ex- 
tend to  many  pages  ! Count  Front-of -brass  begins  confessing 
himself  to  priests : yet  ‘ at  -Trent  paints  a new  hieroglyphic 
Screen,’ — touching  last  flicker  of  a light  that  once  brunt  so 
high  ! He  pawns  diamond  buckles ; wanders  necessitous 
hither  and  thither  ; repents,  unrepents  ; knows  not  what  to  do. 
For  Destiny  has  her  nets  round  him ; they  are  straitening, 
straitening  ; too  soon  he  will  be  ginned  ! 

Di'iven  out  from  Trent,  what  shall  he  make  of  the  new  hie- 
roglyphic Screen,  what  of  himself?  The  wayworn  Grand- 
Cophtess  has  begun  to  blab  family  secrets  ; she  longs  to  be  in 
1 Goethe’s  Werke  ( Italidnische  Reive),  xxviii.  146. 


COUNT  C AG J NOSTRO. 


73 


Rome  by  her  mother’s  hearth,  by  her  mother’s  grave ; in  any 
nook,  where  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  refuge  waits  her.  To 
the  desperate  Count  Front-of -brass  all  places  are  nearly  .alike  : 
urged  by  female  babble,  he  will  go  to  Rome  then  ; why  not  ? 
On  a May-day,  of  the  year  1789  (when  such  glorious  work  had 
just  begun  in  France,  to  him  all  forbidden !),  he  enters  the 
Eternal  City  ; it  was  his  doom-summons  that  called  him 
thither.  On  the  29th  of  next  December,  the  Holy  Inquisi- 
tion, long  watchful  enough,  detects  him  founding  some  feeble 
moneyless  ghost  of  an  Egyptian  Lodge;  ‘ picks  him  off,’  as 
the  military  say,  and  locks  him  hard  and  fast  in  the  Castle  of 
St,  Angelo  : 

Lasciate  ogni  speranzci , mi  die  'ntrate  ! 

Count  Cagliostro  did  not  lose  all  hope  : nevertheless  a few 
words  will  now  suffice  for  him.  In  vain,  with  his  mouth  of 
pinchbeck  and  his  front  of  brass,  does  he  heap  chimera  on 
chimera ; demand  religious  Books  (which  are  freely  given 
him)  ; -demand  clean  Linen,  and  an  interview  with  his  Wife 
(which  are  refused  him)  ; assert  now  that  the  Egyptian  Ma- 
sonry is  a divine  system,  accommodated  to  erring  and  gullible 
men,  which  the  Holy  Father,  when  he  knows  it,  will  patron- 
ise ; anon  that  there  are  some  four  millions  of  Freemasons, 
spread  over  Europe,  all  sworn  to  exterminate  Priest  and  King, 
wherever  met  with  : in  vain  ! they  will  not  acquit  him,  as  mis- 
understood Theophilanthropist ; will  not  emit  him,  in  Pope’s 
pay,  as  renegade  Masonic  Spy:  ‘he  ean’t  get  out.’  Donna 
Lorenza  languishes,  invisible  to  him,  in  a neighbouring  cell ; 
begins  at  length  to  confess  ! Whereupon  he  too,  in  torrents, 
will  emit  confessions  and  forestall  her  : these  the  Inquisi- 
tion pocket  and  sift  (whence  this  Life  of  Balsamo) ; but 
will  not  let  him  out.  In  fine,  after  some  eighteen  months  of 
the  weariest  hounding,  doubling,  worrying,  and  standing  at 
bay,  His  Holiness  gives  sentence  : The  Manuscript  of  Egyp- 
tian Masonry  is  to  be  burnt  by  hand  of  the  common  Hang- 
man, and  all  that  intermeddle  with  such  Masonry  are  ac- 
cursed ; Giuseppe  Balsamo,  justly  forfeited  of  life  for  being 
a Freemason,  shall  nevertheless  in  mercy  be  forgiven ; in- 


74 


COUNT  CAGLIOSTBO. 


structed  in  the  duties  of  penitence,  and  even  kept  safe  thence- 
forth and  till  death, — in  ward  of  Holy  Church.  Ill-starred 
Acharat,  must  it  so  end  with  thee  ? This  was  in  April  1791. 

He  addressed  (how  vainly  !)  an  appeal  to  the  French  Con- 
stitutent  Assembly.  As  was  said,  in  Heaven,  in  Earth,  or  in 
Hell  there  was  no  Assembly  that  could  well  take  his  pail- 
For  four  years  more,  spent  one  knows  not  how, — most  prob- 
ably in  the  furor  of  edacity,  with  insufficient  cookery,  and  the 
stupor  of  indigestion, — the  curtain  lazily  falls.  There  rotted 
and  gave  way  the  cordage  of  a tough  heart.  One  summer 
morning  of  the  year  1795,  the  Body  of  Cagliostro  is  still 
found  in  the  prison  of  St.  Leo  ; but  Cagliostro’s  Self  has  es- 
caped,— whither  no  man  yet  knows.  The  brow  of  brass,  be- 
hold how  it  has  got  all  unlackered  ; these  pinchbeck  bps  can 
lie  no  more  : Cagliostro’s  work  is  ended,  and  now  only  his  ac- 
count to  present.  As  the  Scherif  of  Mecca  said,  “ Nature’s  un- 
fortunate child,  adieu ! ” 

Such,  according  to  our  comprehension  thereof,  is  the  rise, 
progress,  grandeur  and  decadence  of  the  Quack  of  Quack’s. 
Does  the  reader  ask,  What  good  was  in  it ; Why  occupy  his 
time  and  hours  with  the  biography  of. such  a miscreant?  We 
answer,  It  was  stated  on  the  very  threshold  of  this  matter,  in 
the  loftiest  terms,  by  Herr  Sauerteig,  that  the  Lives  of  all 
Eminent  Persons,  miscreant  or  creant,  ought  to  be  written. 
Thus  has  not  the  very  Devil  his  Life,  deservedly  written  not 
by  Daniel  Defoe  only,  but  by  quite  other  hands  than  Dan- 
iel’s ? For  the  rest.,  the  Thing  represented  on  these  pages  is 
no  Sham,  but  a Beality  ; thou  hast  it,  O reader,  as  we  have 
it  : Nature  was  pleased  to  produce  even  such  a man,  even  so, 
not  otherwise  ; and  the  Editor  of  this  Magazine  is  here  mainly 
to  record,  in  an  adequate  manner,  what  she,  of  her  thousand- 
fold mysterious  richness  and  greatness,  produces. 

But  the  moral  lesson  ? Where  is  the  moral  lesson  ? Fool- 
ish reader,  in  every  Beality,  nay  in  every  genuine  Shadow  of 
a Beality  (what  we  call  Poem),  there  lie  a hundred  such,  or  a 
million  such,  according  as  thou  hast  the  eye  to  read  them ! 
Of  which  hundred  or  million  lying  here  in  the  present  Beality, 


CO  UNT  CA  GLIOSTRO. 


75 


couldst  not  tliou,  for  example,  be  advised  to  take  this  one,  to 
thee  worth  all  the  rest  : Behold,  I too  have  attained  that  im- 
measurable, mysterious  glory  of  being  alive;  to  me  also  a 
Capability  has  been  intrusted  ; shall  I strive  to  work  it  out, 
manlike,  into  Faithfulness,  and  Doing  ; or,  quacklike,  into 
Eatableness,  and  Similitude  of  Doing  ? Or  why  not  rather, 
gigman-like,  and  following  the  ‘ respectable  ’ countless  multi- 
tude,— into  both  ? The  decision  is  of  quite  infinite  moment ; 
see  thou  make  it  aright. 

But  in  fine,  look  at  this  matter  of  Cagliostro,  as  at  all  mat- 
ters, with  thy  heart,  with  thy  whole  mind  ; no  longer  merely 
squint  at  it  with  the  poor  side-glance  of  thy  calculative  fac- 
ulty. Look  at  it  not  logically  only,  but  mystically.  Thou 
shalt  in  sober  truth  see  it,  (as  Sauerteig  asserted)  to  be  a Pas- 
quillant  verse,  of  most  inspired  writing  in  its  kind,  in  that 
same  ‘ Grand  Bible  of  Universal  History;’  wondrously  and 
even  indispensably  connected  with  the  Heroic  portions  that 
stand  there  ; even  as  the  all-showing  Light  is  with  the  Dark- 
ness wherein  nothing  can  be  seen  ; as  the  hideous  taloned 
roots  are  with  the  fair  boughs,  and  their  leaves  and  flowers  and 
fruit ; both  of  which,  and  not  one  of  which,  make  the  Tree. 
Think  also  whether  thou  hast  known  no  Public  Quacks,  on 
far  higher  scale  than  this,  whom  a Castle  of  St.  Angelo  never 
could  get  hold  of  ; and  how,  as  Emperors,  Chancellors  (hav- 
ing found  much  fitter  machinery),  they  could  run  their  Quack- 
career  ; and  make  whole  kingdoms,  whole  continents,  into 
one  huge  Egyptian  Lodge,  and  squeeze  supplies  of  money  or  of 
blood  from  it  at  discretion  ? Also,  whether  thou  even  now 
knowest  not  Private  Quacks,  innumerable  as  the  sea-sands, 
toiling  as  mere  ffizZ/’-Cagliostros  ; imperfect,  hybrid-quacks,  of 
whom  Cagliostro  is  as  the  unattainable  ideal  and  type-speci- 
men ? Such  is  the  world.  Understand  it,  despise  it,  love  it  ; 
cheerfully  hold  on  thy  way  through  it,  with  thy  eye  on  higher 
loadstars ! 


DEATH  OF  EDWARD  IRVING. 


DEATH  OF  EDWARD  IRVING. 


Edward  Irving’s  warfare  closed,  if  not  in  victory,  yet  in  invincibility  ; 
A man  of  antique  heroic  nature,  in  questionable  modern  garniture, 
which  he  could  not  wear.  (p.  79).— What  the  Scottish  uncelebrated 
Irving  was,  they  that  have  only  seen  the  London  celebrated  and  dis- 
torted one  can  never  know:  O foulest  Circean  draught,  poison  of  Popu- 
lar Applause!  Wasted  and  worn  to  death  amid  the  fierce  confusion : 
The  freest,  brotheriest,  bravest  human  soul.  (82). 


DEATH  OF  EDWARD  IRVING.1 


[1835.] 

Edward  Irving’s  warfare  has  closed  ; if  not  in  victory,  yet 
in  invincibility,  and  faithful  endurance  to  the  end.  The  Spirit 
of  the  Time,  which  could  not  enlist  him  as  its  soldier,  must 
needs,  in  all  ways,  fight  against  him  as  its  enemy  : it  has  done 
its  part,  and  he  has  done  his.  One  of  the  noblest  natures ; a 
man  of  antique  heroic  nature,  in  questionable  modern  garni- 
ture, which  he  could  not  wear ! Around  him  a distracted  so- 
ciety, vacant,  prurient ; heat  and  darkness,  and  what  these  two 
may  breed : mad  extremes  of  flattery,  followed  by  madder 
contumely,  by  indifference  and  neglect ! These  were  the  con- 
flicting elements  ; this  is  the  result  they  have  made  out  among 
them.  The  voice  of  our  ‘ son  of  thunder,’ — with  its  deep  tone 
of  wisdom  that  belonged  to  all  articulate-speaking  ages,  never 
inaudible  amid  wildest  dissonances  that  belong  to  this  inar- 
ticulate age,  which  slumbers  and  somnambulates,  which  can- 
not speak,  but  only  screech  and  gibber, — has  gone  silent  so 
soon.  Closed  are  those  lips.  The  large  heart,  with  its  large 
bounty,  where  wretchedness  found  solacement,  and  they  that 
were  wandering  in  darkness  the  light  as  of  a home,  has  paused. 
The  strong  man  can  no  more  : beaten-on  from  without  under- 
mined from  within,  he  must  sink  overwearied,  as  at  nightfall, 
when  it  was  yet  but  the  mid-season  of  day.  Irving  was  forty- 
two  years  and  some  months  old : Scotland  sent  him  forth  a 
Herculean  man  ; our  mad  Babylon  wore  him  and  wasted  him, 
with  all  her  engines  ; and  it  took  her  twelve  years.  He  sleeps 
with  his  fathers,  in  that  loved  birth-laud : Babylon  with  its 

1 Fraser’s  Magazine,  No.  61. 


80 


DEATH  OF  EDWARD  IRVING. 


deafening  inanity  rages  on ; but  to  him  henceforth  innocuous, 
unheeded — forever. 

Reader,  thou  hast  seen  and  heard  the  man,  as  who  has  not, 
— with  wise  or  unwise  wonder ; thou  shalt  not  see  or  hear 
him  again.  The  work,  be  what  it  might,  is  done ; dark  cur- 
tains sink  over  it,  enclose  it  ever  deeper  into  the  unchange- 
able Past,  Think,  for  perhaps  thou  art  one  of  a thousand, 
and  worthy  so  to  think,  That  here  once  more  was  a genuine 
man  sent  into  this  our  ungenuine  phantasmagory  of  a world, 
which  would  go  to  ruin  without  such  ; that  here  once  more, 
under  thy  own  eyes,  in  this  last  decade,  was  enacted  the  old 
Tragedy,  and  has  had  its  fifth-act  now,  of  The  Messenger  of 
Truth  in  the  Age  of  Shams, — and  what  relation  thou  thyself 
mayst  have  to  that.  Whether  any?  Beyond  question,  thou 
thyself  art  here;  either  a dreamer  or  awake;  and  one  day 
shalt  cease  to  dream. 

This  man  was  appointed  a Christian  Priest ; and  strove 
with  the  whole  force  that  was  in  him  to  he  it.  To  be  it : in 
a time  of  Tithe  Controversy,  Encyclopedism,  Catholic  Rent, 
Philanthropism,  and  the  Revolution  of  Three  Days ! He 
might  have  been  so  many  things  ; not  a speaker  only,  but  a 
doer ; the  leader  of  hosts  of  men.  For  his  head,  when  the 
Fog-Babylon  had  not  yet  obscured  it,  was  of  strong  far-search- 
ing insight ; his  very  enthusiasm  was  sanguine,  not  atrabiliar  ; 
he  was  so  loving,  full  of  hope,  so  simple-hearted,  and  made 
all  that  approached  him  his.  A giant  force  of  activity  was  in 
the  man ; speculation  was  accident,  not  nature.  Chivalry, 
adventurous  field-life  of  the  old  Border,  and  a far  nobler  sort 
than  that,  ran  in  his  blood.  There  was  in  him  a courage, 
dauntless  not  pugnacious,  hardly  fierce,  by  no  possibility  fero- 
cious ; as  of  the  generous  war-horse,  gentle  in  its  strength, 
yet  that  laughs  at  the  shaking  of  the  spear. — But,  above  all, 
be  what  he  might,  to  be  a reality  was  indispensable  for  him. 
In  his  simple  Scottish  circle,  the  highest  form  of  manhood  at- 
tainable or  known  was  that  of  Christian  ; the  highest  Chris- 
tian was  the  Teacher  of  such.  Irving’s  lot  was  cast.  For  the 
foray-spears  were  all  rusted  into  earth  there  ; Annan  Castle 


DEATH  OF  EDWARD  IRVING. 


81 


liacl  become  a Townhall ; and  Prophetic  Knox  had  sent  tidings 
thither  : Prophetic  Knox  ; and]  alas,  also  Sceptic  Hume  ; and, 
as  the  natural  consequence,  Diplomatic  Dundas ! In  such 
mixed  incongruous  element  had  the  young  soul  to  grow. 

Grow  nevertheless  he  did,  with  that  strong  vitality  of  his  ; 
grow  and  ripen.  What  the  Scottish  uncelebrated  Irving  was, 
they  that  have  only  seen  the  London  celebrated  and  distorted 
one  can  . never  know.  Bodily  and  spiritually,  perhaps  there 
was  not,  in  that  November  1822,  when  he  first  arrived  here, 
a man  more  full  of  genial  energetic  life  in  all  these  Islands. 

By  a fatal  chance,  Fashion  cast  her  eye  on  him,  as  on  some 
impersonation  of  Novel-Cameronianism,  some  wild  Product 
of  Nature  from  the  wild  mountains  ; Fashion  crowded  round 
him,  with  her  meteor  lights  and  Bacchic  dances  ; breathed  her 
foul  incense  on  him  ; intoxicating,  poisoning.  One  may  say, 
it  was  his  own  nobleness  that  forwarded  such  ruin ; the  ex- 
cess of  his  sociability  and  sympathy,  of  his  value  for  the  suf- 
frages and  sympathies  of  men.  Syren  songs,  as  of  a new 
Moral  Reformation  (sons  of  Mammon,  and  high  sons  of  Belial 
and  Beelzebub,  to  become  sons  of  God,  and  the  gumflowers  of 
Almack’s  to  be  made  living  roses  in  a new  Eden),  sound  in  the 
inexperienced  ear  and  heart.  Most  seductive,  most  delusive  ! 
Fashion  went  her  idle  way,  to  gaze  on  Egyptian  Crocodiles, 
Iroquois  Hunters,  or  what  else  there  might  be  ; forgot  this 
man, — who  unhappily  could  not  in  his  turn  forget.  The  in- 
toxicating poison  had  been  swallowed ; no  force  of  natural 
health  could  cast  it  out.  Unconsciously,  for  most  part  in 
deep  unconsciousness,  there  was  now  the  impossibility  to  l^ve 
neglected  ; to  walk  on  the  quiet  paths,  where  alone  it  is  well 
with  us.  Singularity  must  henceforth  succeed  Singularity. 
O foulest  Circean  draught,  thou  poison  of  Popular  Applause  ! 
madness  is  in  thee,  and  death  ; thy  end  is  Bedlam  and  the 
Grave.  For  the  last  seven  years,  Irving,  forsaken  by  the 
world,  strove  either  to  recall  it,  or  to  forsake  it ; shut  himself 
up  in  a lesser  world  of  ideas  and  persons,  and  lived  isolated 
there.  Neither  in  this  was  there  health  : for  this  man  such 
isolation  was  not  fit,  such  ideas,  such  persons. 

One  light  still  shone  on  him  ; alas,  through  a medium  more 
6 


S2 


DEATH  OF  EDWARD  IRVING. 


and  more  turbid  : tbe  light  from  Heaven.  His  Bible  was 
there,  wherein  must  lie  healing  for  all  sorrows.  To  the  Bible 
he  more  and  more  exclusively  addressed  himself.  If  it  is  the 
written  Word  of  God,  shall  it  not  be  the  acted  Word  too  ? Is 
it  mere  sound,  then ; black  printer’s-ink  on  white  rag-paper? 
A half-man  could  have  passed  on  without  answering ; a whole 
ill  an  must  answer.  Hence  Prophecies  of  Millenniums,  Gifts 
of  Tongues, — whereat  Orthodoxy  prims  herself  into  decent 
wonder,  and  waves  her,  Avaunt ! Irving  clave  to  his  Belief, 
as  to  his  soul’s  soul ; followed  it  whithersoever,  through  earth 
or  air,  it  might  lead  him  ; toiling  as  never  man  toiled  to  spread 
it,  to  gain  the  world’s  ear  for  it, — in  vain.  Ever  wilder  waxed 
the  confusion  without  and  within.  The  misguised  noble- 
minded  had  now  nothing  left  to  do  but  die.  He  died  the 
death  of  the  true  and  brave.  His  last  words,  they  say,  were  : 
“In  life  and  in  death,  I am  the  Lord’s.” — Amen  ! Amen ! 

One  who  knew  him  well,  and  may  with  good  cause  love 
him,  has  said  : “ But  for  Irving,  I had  never  known  what  the 
communion  of  man  with  man  means.  His  was  the  freest, 
brotherliest,  bravest  human  soul  mine  ever  came  in  contact 
with  : I call  him,  on  the  whole,  the  best  man  I have  ever,  after 
trial  enough,  found  in  this  world,  or  now  hope  to  find. 

“ The  first  time  I saw  Irving  was  six-and-twenty  years  ago, 
in  his  native  town,  Annan.  He  was  fresh  from  Edinburgh, 
with  College  prizes,  high  character  and  promise  : he  had  come 
to  see  our  Schoolmaster,  who  had  also  been  his.  Me  heard 
of  famed  Professors,  of  high  matters  classical,  mathematical,  a 
whole  Wonder-land  of  Knowledge  : nothing  but  joy,  health, 
hopefulness  without  end,  looked  out  from  the  blooming  young 
man.  The  last  time  I saw  him  was  three  months  ago,  in  Lon- 
don. Friendliness  still  beamed  in  his  eyes,  but  now  from 
amid  unquiet  fire  ; his  face  was  flaccid,  wasted,  unsound  ; 
hoary  as  with  extreme  age  : he  was  trembling  over  the  brink 
of  the  grave. — Adieu,  thou  first  Friend  ; adieu,  while  this 
confused  Twilight  of  Existence  lasts  ! Might  we  meet  where 
Twilight  has  become  Day  ! ” 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


I.— NOVELLE. 

Parable  of  the  bright  Morningtide  of  Life : Its  joyful  duties,  and 
hopeful  sorrows.  Openness  to  all  true  influences  of  Nature  and  Art : 
Mutability  and  its  lessons,  (p.  87). — Manifold  relationship  and  signifi- 
cance of  human  Industry  and  Enterprise.  How  man  delights  to  excite 
himself  by  hypothetical  Terror.  Sunshine  and  aspiring  effort : Noon- 
tide peace,  and  fulness  of  content.  (90). — Hypothetical  Terror  becomes 
actual  Danger.  Presence  of  mind,  readiness,  personal  courage  : Danger 
averted  by  the  destruction  of  what  is  dangerous.  Mystic  intimations  of 
deeper,  wider  instincts.  (94). — How  the  Dangerous  may  be  tamed  into 
order,  and  thus  into  a Higher  than  personal  Security.  All  things. obedi- 
ent to  the  Highest  Wisdom.  The  truest  Courage,  childlike  Trust  in 
God  : The  only  final  Safety,  to  be  in  the  Divine  Harmony  of  his  omnipo- 
tent Love.  (98). 


II.— SCHILLER,  GOETHE  AND  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

Our  Locomotive  Age:  The  interest,  that  once  attached  to  mere  trav- 
ellers, now  gone.  Madame  de  Stael’s  German  Tour  a notable  exception. 
Spiritual  adventures  and  feats  of  intellect,  (p.  105). —Her  jarring  inter- 
views with  Goethe  and  Schiller,  described  -by  themselves.  Intellectual 
incompatibilities,  and  National  dissonances : French  glitter  and  glib- 
ness ; German  depth  and  taciturnity.  Goethe’s  summary  of  the  whole 
circumstances  and  significance  of  her  uncongenial  yet  profitable  visit. 
(106). 


III.— THE  TALE. 

Rumours  and  mis-rumours  concerning  Goethe’s  Tale  of  Tales:  A gen- 
uine English  Translation  nowhanded-in  for  judgment,  (p.  116). — Plian- 
tasmagory  not  Allegory.  A wonderful  Emblem  of  our  wonderful  and 
woful  Transition  Age.  Clue  to  the  significance  of  the  several  Figures 
in  the  Poem.  Imagination,  in  her  Works  of  Art,  should  play  like  a sort 
of  music  upon  us  : She  herself  oannot  condition  and  bargain  ; she  must 
wait  what  shall  be  given  her.  (117). — Metaphysical  Subtilty  and  Au- 


86 


SUMMARY  OF  APPENDIX. 


dacity,  the  first  flickerings,  and  audible  announcement,  of  the  New  Age 
waiting  to  be  born.  How  they  press  poor  old  Spiritual  tradition  into 
their  service  ; and  the  havoc  they  make  with  him  : They  give  him  Wis- 
dom which  he  cannot  use  ; but  have  no  power  to  contribute  the  least  to 
his  wonted  Nourishment.  (124). — The  Wisdom,  which  toil-worn  Tradi- 
tion could  not  and  dared  not  appropriate,  is  eagerly  devoured  by  newly- 
awakened  Speculative  Thought : Glory  of  comprehending,  and  of  sympa- 
thy with  Nature.  How  Logical  Acuteness  is  apt  to  despise  Experimental 
Philosophy  ; an.d  how  Philosophy  gets  the  best  of  the  bargain.  How  can 
poor  Sceptical  Dexterity  ever  find  the  way,  across  the  Time-River  of 
stormy  Human  Effort,  to  the  unutterable  repose  and  blessedness  of 
Spiritual  Affection  ? The  proffered  Shadow  of  Superstition:  Noontide 
Bridge  of  Speculative  Science.  (125). — Experimental  Thought  would 
fain  decipher  the  forms  and  intimations  of  the  impending  Future  : Ad- 
vent and  cooperation  of  Poetic  Insight.  The  ‘ open  secret’  of  the  Com- 
ing Change.  (128). — Poetic  insight  or  Intuitive  Perception,  wedded  to 
Practical  Endeavour  now  grown  decrepit  and  garrulous.  In  the  absence 
of  Insight,  poor  old  Practicality  is  surprised  and  disconcerted  by  a visi- 
tation of  Logic  : Death  of  their  foolish  little  household  Pet  ; which  can 
now  only  become  ‘ a true  companion,’  by  ‘ the  touch’  of  Spiritual  Affec- 
tion. (130). — Practical  Endeavour,  trudging  on,  sullen  and  forlorn,  is 
cunningly  robbed  by  the  Shadow  of  newly-revived  Superstition.  Old 
Tradition  doggedly  insists  on  his  dues  ; but  is  not  unwilling  the  Time- 
River  should  bear  the  loss.  The  individual  ‘ hand  ’ becomes  ‘ invisible,' 
when  pledged  in  the  World-Stream  of  mingled  Human  effort.  (132). — 
The  new  Kingly  Intellect  of  the  new  unborn  Time,  painfully  yearning 
for  a purity  and  Singleness  of  Love,  which,  till  it  learn  ‘ the  fourth  ’ and 
deepest  ‘ secret,’  can  never  belong  to  it.  Invisible  superfluity  of  Logic, 
in  the  Light  of  noonday  intelligence.  Pure  Spiritual  Affection,  the 
New  Love  which  must  inspire  and  sanctify  the  New  Age,  as  yet  only 
powerful  to  produce  wretchedness  and  death  : At  such  Birth-time  of  the 
World,  the  greatest  misery  is  the  greatest  blessing.  (134). — Strange, 
gathering  omens : Speculative  Intelligence,  however  brilliant  and  clear- 
seeing,  not  the  fulfilment  of  the  Blessed  Promise.  The  richest  Kingly 
Intellect  sees  itself  farther  from  the  spirit  of  Holiness  than  the  lowest, 
poorest,  faithful  affection.  Voluntary  self-sacrifice  begins:  Blessed 
death,  better  than  an  outcast  life.  (136). — All  good  influences  combine  to 
succor  and  sustain  the  One,  who  by  Courage  wins  the  secret  of  the  Age. 
Spiritual  Contagion  : Heroic  Self-sacrifice  the  order  of  the  Day.  (1391  — 
Death,  but  a passing  from  Life  to  Life.  The  Temple  of  the  Future,  and 
the  Old-New  Altar  within  the  Temple.  Our  foolish  Age  of  Transition 
passes  utterly  away  ; and  a New  Universal  Kingdom,  of  Wisdom, 
Majesty  and  Heroic  Strength,  inspired  by  the  still  omnipotence  of  Holy 
Love  is  ushered  into  Life.  An  individual  suffices  not,  but  He  who  com- 
bines with  many  at  the  proper  Hour.  (144). 


APPENDIX 


I. 

NOVELLE.1 

TRANSLATED  FROM  GOETHE. 

[1832.] 

The  spacious  courts  of  the  Prince’s  Castle  were  still  veiled  in 
thick  mists  of  an  autumnal  morning ; through  which  veil,  mean- 
while, as  it  melted  into  clearness,  you  could  more  or  less  discern 
the  whole  Hunter-company,  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  all  busily 
astir.  The  hasty  occupations  of  the  nearest  were  distinguishable  : 
there  was  lengthening,  shortening  of  stirrup-leathers  ; there  was 
handling  of  rifles  and  shot-pouches,  there  was  putting  of  game- 
bags  to  rights  ; while  the  hounds,  impatient  in  their  leashes,  threat- 
ened to  drag  their  keepers  off  with  them.  Here  and  there  too,  a 
horse  showed  spirit  more  than  enough  ; driven-on  by  its  fiery 
nature,  or  excited  by  the  spur  of  its  rider,  who  even  now  in  the 
half-dusk  could  not  repress  a certain  self-complacent  wish  to  ex- 
hibit himself.  All  waited,  however,  on  the  Prince,  who,  taking 
leave  of  his  young  consort,  was  now  delaying  too  long. 

United  a short  while  ago,  they  already  felt  the  happiness  of 
consentaneous  dispositions  :y  both  were  of  active  vivid  character ; 
each  willingly  participated  in  the  tastes  and  endeavours  of  the 
other.  The  Prince’s  father  had  already,  in  his  time,  discerned  and 
improved  the  season  when  it  became  evident  that  all  members  of 
the  commonwealth  should  pass  their  days  in  equal  industry ; 
should  all,  in  equal  working  and  producing,  each  in  his  kind,  first 
earn  and  then  enjoy. 

How  well  this  had  prospered  was  visible  in  these  very  days, 
when  the  chief  market  was  a-holding  which  you  might  well 
1 Fraser’s  Magazine,  No.  34. 


S8 


APPENDIX. 


enough  have  named  a fair.  The  Prince  yestereven  had  led  his 
Princess  on  horse-back  through  the  tumult  of  the  heaped-up 
wares  ; and  pointed  out  to  her  how,  on  this  spot,  the  Mountain 
region  met  the  Plain  country  in  profitable  barter  : he  could  here, 
with  the  objects  before  him,  awaken  her  attention  to  the  various 
industry  of  his  Laud. 

If  the  Prince  at  this  time  occupied  himself  and  his  servants  al- 
most exclusively  with  these  pressing  concerns,  and  in  particular 
worked  incessantly  with  his  Finance-minister,  yet  would  the 
Huntmaster  too  have  his  right;  on  whose  pleading,  the  tempta- 
tion could  not  be  resisted  to  undertake,  in  this  choice  autumn 
■weather,  a Hunt  that  had  already  been  postponed  ; and  so  for  the 
household  itself,  and  for  the  many  stranger  visitants,  prepare  a 
peculiar  and  singular  festivity. 

The  Princess  stayed  behind  with  reluctance : but  it  was  pro- 
posed to  push  far  into  the  Mountains,  and  stir-up  the  peaceable 
inhabitants  of  the  forests  there  with  an  unexpected  invasion. 

At  parting,  her  lord  failed  not  to  propose  a ride  for  her,  with 
Friedrich,  the  Prince-Uncle,  as  escort:  “I  will  leave  thee,”  said 
he,  “ our  Honorio  too,  as  Equerry  and  Page,  who  will  manage 
all.”  In  pursuance  of  which  words,  he,  in  descending,  gave  to  a 
handsome  young  man  the  needful  injunctions ; and  soon  there- 
after disappeared  with  guests  and  train. 

The  Princess,  who  had  waved  her  handkerchief  to  her  husband 
while  still  down  in  the  court,  now  retired  to  the  back  apartments, 
which  commanded  a free  prospect  towards  the  Mountains  ; and  so 
much  the  lovelier,  as  the  Castle  itself  stood  on  a sort  of  elevation, 
and  thus,  behind  as  well  as  before,  afforded  manifold  magnificent 
views.  She  found  the  fine  telescope  still  in  the  position  where 
they  had  left  it  yestereven,  when  amusing  themselves  over  bush 
and  hill  and  forest-summit,  with  the  lofty  ruins  of  the  primeval 
Stammburg,  or  Family  Tower ; which  in  the  clearness  of  evening 
stood  out  noteworthy,  as  at  that  hour  with  its  great  light-and-shade 
masses,  the  best  aspect  of  so  venerable  a memorial  of  old  time  was 
to  be  had.  This  morning  too,  with  the  approximating  glasses, 
might  be  beautifully  seen  the  autumnal  tinge  of  the  trees,  many 
in  kind  and  number,  which  had  struggled  up  through  the  masonry, 
unhindered  and  undisturbed  during  long  years.  The  fair  dame, 
however,  directed  the  tube  somewhat,  lower,  to  a waste  stony  flat, 
over  which  the  Hunting-train  was  to  pass : she  waited  the  mo- 
ment with  patience,  and  was  not  disappointed  ; for  with  the  clear- 
ness and  magnifying  power  of  the  instrument  her  glancing  eyes 


APPENDIX. 


89 


plainly  distinguished  the  Prince  and  the  Head-Equerry ; nay  she 
forbore  not  again  to  wave  her  handkerchief,  as  some  momentary 
pause  and  looking-back  was  fancied  perhaps,  rather  than  ob- 
served. 

Prince-Uncle,  Friedrich  by  name,  now  with  announcement  en- 
tered, attended  by  his  Painter,  who  carried  a large  portfolio  under 
his  arm.  “ Dear  Cousin,”  said  the  hale  old  gentleman,  “ we  here 
present  you  with  the  Views  of  the  Stammburg,  taken  on  various 
sides  to  show  how  the  mighty  Pile,  warred-on  and  warring,  has  from 
old  time  fronted  the  year  and  its  weather  ; how  here  and  there  its 
walls  had  to  yield,  here  and  there  rush  down  into  waste  ruins. 
However,  we  have  now  done  much  to  make  the  wild  mass  accessi- 
ble ; for  more  there  wants  not  to  set  every  traveller,  eveiy  visitor, 
into  astonishment,  into  admiration.” 

As  the  Prince  now  exhibited  the  separate  leaves,  he  continued : 
“ Here  where,  advancing  up  the  hollow-way,  through  the  outer 
ring-walls,  you  reach  the  Fortress  proper,  rises  against  us  a rock, 
the  firmest  of  the  whole  mountain  ; on  this  there  stands  a tower 
built, — yet  where  Nature  leaves  off,  and  Art  and  Handicraft  begin, 
no  one  can  distinguish.  Farther  you  perceive,  sidewards,  walls 
abutting  on  it,  and  donjons  terrace-wise  stretching  down.  But  I 
speak  wrong  ; foi-,  to  the  eye,  it  is  but  a wood  that  encircles  that 
old  summit : these  hundred-and-fifty  years  no  axe  has  sounded  there, 
and  the  massiest  stems  have  on  all  sides  sprung  up  ; wherever  you 
press  inwards  to  the  walls,  the  smooth  maple,  the  rough  oak,  the 
taper  pine,  with  trunk  and  roots  oppose  you  ; round  these  we  have 
to  wind,  and  pick  our  footsteps  with  skill.  Do  but  look  how  art- 
fully our  Master  has  brought  the  character  of  it  on  paper  ; how  the 
roots  and  stems,  the  species  of  each  distinguishable,  twist  them- 
selves among  the  masonry,  and  the  huge  boughs  come  looping 
through  the  holes.  It  is  a wilderness  like  no  other ; an  accident- 
ally unique  locality,  where  ancient  traces  of  the  long-vanished 
power  of  Man,  and  the  ever-living,  ever-working  power  of  Nature 
show  themselves  in  the  most  earnest  conflict.” 

Exhibiting  another  leaf,  he  went  on  : “ What  say  you  now  to  the 
Castle-court,  which,  become  inaccessible  by  the  falling-in  of  tlu 
old  gate-tower,  had  for  immemorial  time  been  trodden  by  no  foot  ? 
We  sought  to  get  at  it  by  a side  ; have  pierced  through  walls, 
blasted  vaults  asunder,  and  so  provided  a convenient  but  secret 
way.  Inside  it  needed  no  clearance  ; here  stretches  a flat  rock- 
summit,  smoothed  by  Nature  : but  yet  strong  trees  have,  in  spots, 
found  luck  and  opportunity  for  rooting  themselves  there ; they 


90 


APPENDIX. 


have  softly  but  decidedly  grown  up,  and  now  stretch  out  tbeir 
boughs  into  the  galleries  where  the  knights  once  walked  to  and 
fro  ; nay  through  the  doors  and  windows  into  the  vaulted  halls ; 
out  of  which  we  would  not  drive  them  : they  have  even  got  the 
mastery,  and  may  keep  it.  Sweeping  away  deep  strata  of  leaves, 
we  have  found  the  notablest  place,  all  smoothed,  the  like  of  which 
were  perhaps  not  to  be  met  with  in  the  world. 

“ After  all  this,  however,  it  is  still  to  be  remarked,  and  on  the 
spot  itself  well  worth  examining,  how  on  the  steps  that  lead  up  to 
the  main  tower,  a maple  has  struck  root  and  fashioned  itself  to  a 
stout  tree,  so  that  you  hardly  can  with  difficulty  press  by  it,  to 
mount  the  battlements  and  gaze  over  the  unbounded  prospect. 
Yet  here  too,  you  linger  pleased  in  the  shade  ; for  that  tree  is  it 
which,  high  over  the  whole,  wondrously  lifts  itself  into  the  air. 

“ Let  us  thank  the  brave  Artist,  then,  who  so  deservingly  in 
various  pictures  teaches  us  the  whole,  even  as  if  we  saw  it : he 
has  spent  the  fairest  hours  of  the  day  and  of  the  season  therein, 
and  for  weeks  long  kept  moving  about  these  scenes.  Here  in  this 
corner  has  there  been,  for  him  and  the  warder  we  gave  him,  a 
pleasant  little  dwelling  fitted  up.  You  could  not  think,  my  Best, 
what  a lovely  outlook  into  the  country,  into  court  and  walls,  he 
has  got  there.  But  now  when  all  is  once  in  outline,  so  pure,  so 
characteristic,  he  may  finish  it  down  here  at  his  ease.  With  these 
pictures  we  will  decorate  our  garden-hall ; and  no  one  shall  recreate 
his  eyes  over  our-  regular  parterres,  our  groves  and  shady  walks, 
without  wishing  himself  up  there,  to  follow,  in  actual  sight  of  the 
old  and  of  the  new,  of  the  stubborn,  inflexible,  indestructible,  and 
of  the  fresh,  pliant,  irresistible,  what  reflections  and  comparisons 
would  rise  for  him.” 

Honorio  entered,  with  notice  that  the  horses  were  brought  out ; 
then  said  the  Princess,  turning  to  the  Uncle  : “Let  us  ride  up  ; 
and  you  will  show  me  in  reality  what  you  have  here  set  before  me 
in  image.  Ever  since  I came  among  you,  I have  heard  of  this 
undertaking;  and  now  should  like,  of  all  things,  to  see  with  my 
own  eyes  what  in  the  narrative  seemed  impossible,  and  in  the 
depicting  remains  improbable.” — “Not  yet,  my  Love,”  answered 
the  Prince:  “What  you  here  saw  is  what  it  can  become  and  is 
becoming ; for  the  present,  much  in  the  enterprise  stands  still 
amid  impediments  ; Art  must  first  be  complete,  if  Nature  is  not  to 
shame  it.” — “ Then  let  us  ride  at  least  upwards,  were  it  only  to 
the  foot : I have  the  greatest  wish  to-day  to  look  about  me  far 
in  the  world.” — “Altogether  as  you  will,”  replied  the  prince. — 


APPENDIX. 


91 


“Let  us  ride  through  the  Town,  however,”  continued  the  Lady, 
“ over  the  great  market-place,  where  stands  the  innumerable  crowd 
of  booths,  looking  like  a little  city,  like  a camp.  It  is  as  if  the 
wants  and  occupations  of  all  the  families  in  the  land  were  turned 
outwards,  assembled  in  this  centre,  and  brought  into  the  light  of 
day  : for  the  attentive  observer  can  descry  whatsoever  it  is  that 
man  performs  and  needs ; you  fancy,  for  the  moment,  there  is  no 
money  necessary,  that  all  business  could  here  be  managed  by 
barter,  and  so  at  bottom  it  is.  Since  the  Prince,  last  night,  set  me 
on  these  reflections,  it  is  pleasant  to  consider  how  here,  where 
Mountain  and  Plain  meet  together,  both  so  clearly  speak  out  what 
they  require  and  wish.  For  as  the  highlander  can  fashion  the  tim- 
ber of  his  woods  into  a hundred  shapes,  and  mould  his  iron  for  all 
manner  of  uses,  so  these  others  from  below  come  to  meet  him  with 
most  manifold  wares,  in  which  often  you  can  hardly  discover  the 
material  or  recognise  the  aim.” 

“ I am  aware,”  answered  the  Prince,  “ that  my  Nejaliew  turns  his 
utmost  care  to  these  things  ; for  specially,  on  the  present  occasion, 
this  main  point  comes  to  be  considered,  that  one  receive  more  than 
one  gives  out : wdiich  to  manage  is,  in  the  long-run,  the  sum  of  all 
Political  Economy,  as  of  the  smallest  private  housekeeping.  Par- 
don me,  however,  my  Best : I never  like  to  ride  through  markets  ; 
at  every  step  you  are  hindered  and  kept  back  ; and  then  flames-up 
in  my  imagination  the  monstrous  misery  which,  as  it  were,  burnt 
itself  into  my  eyes,  when  I witnessed  one  such  world  of  wares  go 
off  in  fire.  I had  scarcely  got  to ” 

“ Let  us  not  lose  the  bright  hours,”  interrupted  the  Princess  ; for 
the  worthy  man  had  already  more  than  once  afflicted  her  with  the 
minute  description  of  that  mischance  : how  he,  being  on  a long  jour- 
ney, resting  in  the  best  inn,  on  the  market-place  which  was  just 
then  swarming  with  a fair,  had  gone  to  bed  exceedingly  fatigued  ; 
and  in  the  night-time  been,  by  shrieks,  and  flames  rolling  up  against 
his  lodging,  hideously  awakened. 

. The  Princess  hastened  to  mount  her  favourite  horse  : and  led, 
not  through  the  backgate  upwards,  but  through  the  foregate 
downwards,  her  reluctant-willing  attendant ; for  who  but  would 
gladly  have  ridden  by  her  side,  wrho  but  would  gladly  have  followed 
after  her  ? And  so  Honorio  too  had,  without  regret,  stayed  back 
from  the  otherwise  so  wished-for  Hunt,  to  be  exclusively  at  her 
service. 

As  was  to  be  anticipated,  they  could  only  ride  through  the  market 
step  by  step  : but  the  fair  Lovely  one  enlivened  every  stoppage  by 


92 


APPENDIX. 


some  sprightly  remark  ; “ I repeat  my  lesson  of  yesternight,”  said 
she,  “since  Necessity  is  trying  our  patience.”  And  in  truth,  tlio 
whole  mass  of  men  so  crowded  about  the  riders,  that  their  progress 
was  slow.  The  people  gazed  with  joy  at  the  young  dame  ; and  on 
so  many  smiling  countenances  might  be  read  the  pleasure  they  felt 
to  see  that  the  first  woman  in  the  land  was  also  the  fairest  and 
gracefullest. 

Promiscuously  mingled  stood,  Mountaineers,  who  had  built  their 
still  dwellings  amid  rocks,  firs  and  spruces ; Lowlanders  from 
hills,  meadows  and  leas  ; craftsmen  of  the  little  towns;  and  what 
else  had  all  assembled  there.  After  a quiet  glance,  the  Princess 
remarked  to  her  attendant,  how  all  these,  whencesoever  they  came, 
had  taken  more  stuff  than  necessary  for  their  clothes,  more  cloth 
and  linen,  more  ribands  for  trimming.  It  is  as  if  the  women  could 
not  be  bushy  enough,  the  men  not  puffy  enough,  to  please  them- 
selves. 

“We  will  leave  them  that,”  answered  the  Uncle  : “ spend  his 
superfluity  on  what  he  will,  a man  is  happy  in  it ; happiest  when  he 
therewith  decks  and  dizens  himself.”  The  fair  dame  nodded  assent. 

So  had  they,  by  degrees,  got  upon  a clear  space,  which  led  out 
to  the  suburbs  ; when,  at  the  end  of  many  small  booths  and  stands, 
a larger  edifice  of  boards  showed  itself,  which  was  scarcely  glanced 
at  till  an  ear-lacerating  bellow  sounded  forth  from  it.  The  feed- 
ing-hour of  the  wild-beasts,  there  exhibited,  seemed  to  have  come  : 
the  Lion  let  his  forest-  and  desert-voice  be  heard  in  all  vigour ; 
the  horses  shuddered,  and  all  had  to  remark  how,  in  the  peaceful 
ways  and  workings  of  the  cultivated  world,  the  king  of  the  wilder- 
ness so  fearfully  announced  himself.  Coming  nearer  the  booth, 
you  could  not  overlook  the  variegated  colossal  pictures  represent- 
ing with  violent  colours  and  strong  emblems  those  foreign  beasts  ; 
to  a sight  of  which  the  peaceful  burgher  was  to  be  irresistibly  en- 
ticed. The  grim  monstrous  tiger  was  pouncing  on  a blackamoor, 
on  the  point  of  tearing  him  in  shreds  ; a lion  stood  earnest  and 
majestic,  as  if  he  saw  no  prey  worthy  of  him;  other  wondrous 
particoloured  creatures,  beside  these  mighty  ones,  deserved  less 
attention. 

“ As  we  come  back,”  said  the  Princess,  “we  will  alight  and  take 
a nearer  view  of  these  gentry.” — “It  is  strange,”  observed  the 
Prince,  “that  man  always  seeks  excitement  by  Terror.  Inside, 
there,  the  Tiger  lies  quite  quiet  in  his  cage  ; and  here  must  he  fe- 
rociously dart  upon  a black,  that  the  people  may  fancy  the  like  is 
to  be  seen  within  : of  murder  and  sudden  death,  of  burning  and 


APPENDIX. 


93 


destruction,  there  is  not  enough,  but  ballad-singers  must  at  every 
corner  keep  repeating  it.  Good  man  will  have  himself  frightened 
a little  ; to  feel  the  better,  in  secret,  how  beautiful  and  laudable  it 
is  to  draw  breath  in  freedom.” 

"Whatever  of  apprehensiveness  from  such  bugbear  images  might 
have  remained,  was  soon  all  and  wholly  effaced,  as,  issuing  through 
the  gate,  our  party  entered  ou  the  cheerfullest  of  scenes.  The 
road  led  first  up  the  River,  as  yet  but  a small  current,  and  bearing 
only  light  boats,  but  which  by-and-by,  as  a renowned  world-stream, 
would  carry  forth  its  name  and  waters,  and  enliven  distant  lands. 
They  proceeded  next  through  well-cultivated  fruit-gardens  and 
pleasure-grounds,  softly  ascending  ; and  by  degrees  you  could  look 
about  you,  in  the  now  disclosed,  much-peopled  region  ; till  first  a 
thicket,  then  a little  wood  admitted  our  riders,  and  the  graceful- 
lest  localities  refreshed  and  limited  their  view.  A meadow-vale 
leading  upwards,  shortly  before  mown  for  the  second  time,  velvet- 
like to  look  upon,  and  watered  by  a brook  rushing  out  lively  copi- 
ous at  once  from  the  uplands  above,  received  them  as  with  wel- 
come ; and  so  they  approached  a higher  freer  station  ; which,  on 
issuing  from  the  wood,  after  a stiff  ascent,  they  gained  ; and  could 
now  descry,  over  new  clumps  of  trees,  the  old  Castle,  the  goal  of 
their  pilgrimage,  rising  in  the  distance,  as  pinnacle  of  the  rock  and 
forest.  Backwards,  again,  (for  never  did  one  mount  hither  with- 
out turning  round),  they  caught,  through  accidental  openings  of  the 
high  trees,  the  Prince’s  Castle,  on  the  left,  lightened  by  the  morning 
sun  ; the  well-built  higher  quarter  of  the  Town,  softened  under 
light  smoke-clouds  : and  so  on,  rightwards,  the  under  Town,  the 
River  in  several  bendings,  with  its  meadows  and  mills  ; on  the  far- 
ther side,  an  extensive  fertile  region. 

Having  satisfied  themselves  with  the  prospect,  or  rather,  as  usu- 
ally happens  when  we  look  round  from  so  high  a station,  become 
doubly  eager  for  a wider,  less  limited  Hew,  they  rode  on,  over  a 
broad  stony  flat,  where  the  mighty  Ruin  stood  fronting  them,  as  a 
green-crowned  summit,  a few  old  trees  far  down  about  its  foot : 
they  rode  along ; and  so  arrived  there,  just  at  the  steepest,  most 
inaccessible  side.  Great  rocks  jutting  out  from  of  old,  insensible 
of  every  change,  firm,  well-founded,  stood  clenched  together 
there ; and  so  it  towered  upwards  ; what  had  fallen  at  intervals 
lay  in  huge  plates  and  fragments  confusedly  heaped,  and  seemed 
to  forbid  the  boldest  any  attempt.  But  the  steep,  the  precipitous 
is  inviting  to  youth  : to  undertake  it,  to  storm  and  conquer  it,  is 
for  young  limbs  an  enjoyment.  The  Princess  testified  desire  for 


94 


APPENDIX. 


an  attempt ; Honorio  was  at  her  hand ; the  Prince-Uncle,  if  easier 
to  satisfy,  took  it  cheerfully,  and  would  show  that  he  too  had 
strength : the  horses  were  to  wait  below  among  the  trees ; our 
climbers  make  for  a certain  point,  where  a huge  projecting  rock 
affords  standing-room,  and  a prospect,  which  indeed  is  already 
passing  over  into  the  bird’s-eye  kind,  yet  folds  itself  together  there 
picturesquely  enough. 

The  sun,  almost  at  its  meridian,  lent  the  clearest  light ; the 
Prince’s  Castle,  with  its  compartments,  main  buildings,  wings, 
domes  and  towers,  lay  clear  and  stately ; the  upper  Town  in  its 
whole  extent ; into  the  lower  also  you  could  conveniently  look,  nay 
by  the  telescope  distinguish  the  booths  in  the  market-place.  So 
furtkersome  an  instrument  Honorio  would  never  leave  behind: 
they  looked  at  the  Biver  upwards  and  downwards ; on  this  side, 
the  mountainous,  ten-ace-like,  interrupted  expanse,  on  that  the  up- 
swelling,  fruitful  land,  alternating  in  level  and  low  hill ; places  in- 
numerable ; for  it  was  long  customary  to  dispute  how  many  of  them 
were  here  to  be  seen. 

Over  the  great  expanse  lay  a cheerful  stillness,  as  is  common  at 
noon  ; when,  as  the  Ancients  were  wont  to  say,  Pan  is  asleep,  and 
all  Nature  holds  her  breath  not  to  awaken  him. 

“It  is  not  the  first  time,”  said  the  Princess,  “that  I,  on  some 
such  high  far-seeing  spot,  have  reflected  how  Nature,  all  clear, 
looks  so  pure  and  peaceful,  and  gives  you  the  impression  as  if 
there  were  nothing  contradictory  in  the  world  ; and  yet  when  you 
return  back  into  the  habitation  of  man,  be  it  lofty  or  low,  wide  or 
narrow,  there  is  ever  somewhat  to  contend  with,  to  battle  with,  to 
smooth  and  put  to  rights.” 

Honorio,  who  meanwhile  was  looking  through  the  glass  at  the 
Town,  exclaimed,  “ See  ! see  ! There  is  fire  in  the  market ! ” 
They  looked,  and  could  observe  some  smoke ; the  flames  were 
smothered  in  the  daylight.  “The  fire  spreads  ! ” cried  he,  still 
looking  through  the  glass  : the  mischief  indeed  now  became  notice- 
able to  the  good  eyes  of  the  Princess  ; from  time  to  time  you  ob- 
serve a red  burst  of  flame,  the  smoke  mounted  aloft ; and  Prince- 
Uncle  said : “ Let  us  return  ; that  is  not  good ; I always  feared  I 
should  see  that  misery  a second  time.”  They  descended,  got  back 
to  their  horses.  “ Bide,”  said  the  Princess  to  the  Uncle,  “fast,  but 
not  without  a groom  : leave  me  Honorio ; we  will  follow  without 
delay.”  The  Uncle  felt  the  reasonableness,  nay  necessity  of  this  ; 
and  started  off  down  the  waste  stony  slope,  at  the  quickest  pace 
the  ground  allowed. 


APPENDIX. 


95 


As  the  Princess  mounted,  Honorio  said:  “Please  your  Excel- 
lency to  ride  slow  ! Iu  the  Town  as  in  the  Castle,  the  tire-appar- 
atus is  in  perfect  order ; the  people,  in  this  unexpected  accident, 
will  not  lose  their  presence  of  mind.  Here,  moreover,  we  have 
bad  ground,  little  stones  and  short  grass  ; quick  riding  is  unsafe  ; 
in  any  case,  before  we  arrive,  the  fire  will  be  got  under.”  The 
Princess  did  not  think  so  ; she  observed  the  smoke  spreading,  she 
fancied  that  she  saw  a flame  flash  up,  that  she  heard  an  explosion  ; 
and  nowin  her  imagination  all  the  terrific  things  awoke,  which  the 
worthy  Uncle’s  repeated  narrative  of  his  experiences  in  that  mar- 
ket-conflagration had  too  deeply  implanted  there. 

Frightful  doubtless  had  that  business  been ; alarming  and  im- 
pressive enough  to  leave  behind  it,  painfully  through  life  loug,  a 
boding  and  image  of  its  recurrence, — when  in  the  night-season, 
on  the  great  booth-covered  market-space,  a sudden  Are  had  seized 
booth  after  booth,  before  the  sleepers  in  these  light  huts  could  be 
shaken  out  of  deep  dreams  : the  Prince  himself,  as  a wearied 
stranger  arriving  only  for  rest,  started  from  his  sleep,  sprang  to 
the  window,  saw  all  fearfully  illuminated  ; flame  after  flame,  from 
the  right,  from  the  left,  darting  through  each  other,  rolls  quiver- 
ing towards  him.  The  houses  of  the  market-place,  reddened  in 
the  shine,  seemed  already  glowing ; threatened  every  moment  to 
kindle,  and  burst  forth  in  fire.  Below,  the  element  raged  without 
let ; planks  cracked,  laths  crackled,  the  canvas  flew  abroad,  and  its 
dusky  fire-peaked  tatters  whirled  themselves  round  and  aloft, — as 
if  bad  spirits,  in  their  own  element,  with  perpetual  change  of 
shape,  were  in  capricious  dance,  devouring  one  another,  and  there 
and  yonder,  would  dart-up  out  from  their  penal  fire.  And  then, 
with  wild  howls,  each  saved  what  was  at  hand  : servants  and  mas- 
ters laboured  to  drag  forth  bales  already  seized  by  the  flames  ; to 
snatch  away  yet  somewhat  from  the  burning  shelves,  and  pack  it 
into  the  chests,  which  too  they  must  at  last  leave  a prey  to  the 
hastening  flame.  How  many  a one  could  have  prayed  but  for  a 
moment’s  pause  to  the  loud-advancing  fire  ; as  he  looked  round 
for  the  possibility  of  some  device,  and  was  with  all  his  possessions 
already  seized ! On  the  one  side,  there  burnt  and  glowed  already 
what,  on  the  other,  still  stood  in  dark  night.  Obstinate  characters, 
will-strong  men,  grimly  fronted  the  grim  foe  ; and  saved  much, 
with  loss  of  their  eyebrows  and  hair. — Alas,  all  this- waste  confu- 
sion now  arose  anew  before  the  fair  spirit  of  the  Princess  ; the  gay 
morning  prospect  was  all  overclouded,  and  her  eyes  darkened  ; 
wood  and  meadow  had  put  on  a look  of  strangeness,  of  danger. 


96 


APPENDIX. 


Entering  the  peaceful  vale,  heeding  little  its  refreshing  coolness, 
they  were  but  a few  steps  onwards  from,  the  copious  fountain  of 
the  brook  which  flowed  by  them,  when  the  Princess  descried,  quite 
down  in  the  thickets,  something  singular,  which  she  soon  recog- 
nised for  the  tiger  : springing  on,  as  she  a short  while  ago  had 
seen  him  painted,  he  came  towards  her  ; and  this  image,  added  to 
the  frightful  ones  she  was  already  busy  with,  made  the  strangest 
impression.  “Fly,  your  Grace!”  cried  Honorio,  “fly!”  She 
turned  her  horse  towards  the  steep  hill  they  had  jngt  descended. 
The  young  man,  rushing  on  towards  the  monster,  drew  his  pistol 
and  fired  when  he  thought  himself  near  enough  ; but,  alas,  with- 
out effect ; the  tiger  sprang  to  a side,  the  horse  faltered,  the  pro- 
voked wild-beast  followed  his  course,  upwards  straight  after  the 
Princess.  She  galloped,  what  her  horse  could,  up  the  steep  stony 
space  ; scarcely  apprehending  that  so  delicate  a creature,  unused 
to  such  exertion,  could  not  hold  out.  It  overdid  itself,  driven  on 
by  the  necessitated  Princess ; it  stumbled  on  the  loose  gravel  of 
the  steep,  and  again  stumbled  ; and  at  last  fell,  after  violent  ef- 
forts, powerless  to  the  ground.  The  fair  dame,  resolute  and  dex- 
terous, failed  not  instantly  to  get  upon  her  feet ; the  horse  too  rose, 
but  the  tiger  was  approaching ; though  not  with  vehement  speed  ; 
the  uneven  ground,  the  sharp  stones  seemed  to  damp  his  impetu- 
osity ; and  only  Honorio  flying  after  him,  riding  with  checked 
speed  along  with  him,  appeared  to  stimulate  and  provoke  his  force 
anew.  Both  runners,  at  the  same  instant,  reached  the  spot  where 
the  Princess  was  standing  by  her  horse  : the  Knight  bent  himself, 
fired,  and  with  this  second  pistol  hit  the  monster  through  the 
head,  so  that  it  rushed  down  ; and  now,  stretched  out  in  full 
length,  first  clearly  disclosed  the  might  and  terror  whereof  only 
the  bodily  hull  was  left  lying.  Honorio  had  sprung  from  his  horse ; 
was  already  kneeling  on  the  beast,  quenching  its  last  movements, 
and  held  his  drawn  hanger  in  his  right  hand.  The  youth  was 
beautiful ; he  had  come  dashing  on,  as,  in  sports  of  the  lance  and 
the  ring,  the  Princess  had  often  seen  him  do.  Even  so  in  the 
riding-course  would  his  bullet,  as  he  darted  by,  hit  the  Turk’s-head 
on  the  pole,  right  under  the  turban  in  the  brow  ; even  so  would 
he,  lightly  prancing  up,  prick  his  naked  sabre  into  the  fallen  mass, 
and  lift  it  from  the  ground.  In  all  such  arts  he  was  dexterous  and 
felicitous  ; both  now  stood  him  in  good  stead. 

“ Give  him  the  rest,”  said  the  princess : “ I fear  he  will  hurt  you 
with  his  claws.” — “ Pardon  ! ” answered  the  youth  : “ he  is  already 
dead  enough  ; and  I would  not  hurt  the  skin,  which  next  winter 


APPENDIX. 


97 


shall  shine  upon  your  sledge.” — “ Sport  not,”  said  the  Princess  : 

‘ ‘ whatsoever  of  pious  feeling  dwells  in  the  depth  of  the  heart  un- 
folds itself  in  such  a moment.” — “I  too,”  cried  Honorio,  “was 
never  more  pious  than  even  now ; and  therefore  do  I think  of  what 
is  joyfullest ; I look  at  the  tiger’s  fell  only  as  it  can  attend  you  to 
do  you  pleasure.” — “ It  would  forever  remind  me,”  said  she,  “of 
this  fearful  moment.” — “ Yet  is  it,”  replied  the  youth  with  glow- 
ing cheeks,  “ a more  harmless  spoil  than  when  the  weapons  of 
slain  enemies  are  carried  for  show  before  the  victor.” — “ I shall 
bethink  me,  at  sight  of  it,  of  your  boldness  and  cleverness  ; and 
need  not  add,  that  you  may  reckon  on  my  thanks  and  the  Prince’s 
favour  for  your  life  long.  But  rise  ; the  beast  is  clean  dead ; let 
us  consider  what  is  next ; before  all  things  rise  ! ” — “ As  I am  once 
on  my  knees,”  replied  the  youth,  “once  in  a posture  which  in 
other  circumstances  would  have  been  forbid,  let  me  beg  at  this 
moment  to  receive  assurance  of  the  favour,  of  the  grace  which  you 
vouchsafe  me.  I have  already  asked  so  often  of  your  high  Consort 
for  leave  and  promotion  to  go  on  my  travels.  He  who  has  the 
happiness  to  sit  at  your  table,  whom  you  honour  with  the  privilege 
to  entertain  your  company,  should  have  seen  the  world.  Travellers 
stream-in  on  us  from  all  parts ; and  when  a town,  an  important 
spot  in  any  quarter  of  the  world  comes  in  course,  the  question  is 
sure  to  be  asked  of  us,  Were  we  ever  there  ? Nobody  allows  one 
sense,  till  one  has  seen  all  that : it  is  as  if  you  had  to  instruct 
yourself  only  for  the  sake  of  others.” 

“Rise  ! ” repeated  the  Princess  : “I  were  loth  to  wish  or  request 
aught  that  went  against  the  will  of  my  Husband  ; however,  if  I 
mistake  not,  the  cause  why  he  has  restrained  you  hitherto  will 
soon  be  at  an  end.  His  intention  was  to  see  you  ripened  into  a 
complete  self-guided  nobleman,  to  do  yourself  and  him  credit  in 
foreign  parts,  as  hitherto  at  court ; and  I should  think  this  deed 
of  yours  was  as  good  a recommendatory  passport  as  a young  man 
could  wish  for,  to  take  abroad  with  him.” 

That,  instead  of  a youthful  joy,  a certain  mournfulness  came 
over  his  face,  the  Princess  had  not  time  to  observe,  nor  had  he  to 
indulge  his  emotion ; for,  in  hot  haste,  up  the  steep,  came  a 
woman,  with  a boy  at  her  hand,  straight  to  the  group  so  well 
known  to  us  ; and  scarcely  had  Honorio,  bethinking  him,  arisen, 
when  they  howling  and  shrieking  cast  themselves  on  the  carcass  ; 
by  which  action,  as  well  as  by  their  cleanly,  decent,  yet  particol- 
oured and  unusual  dress,  might  be  gathered  that  it  was  the  mis- 
tress of  this  slain  creature,  and  the  black-eyed,  black-locked  boy, 
7 


98 


APPENDIX. 


holding  a flute  in  his  hand,  her  son ; weeping  like  his  mother, 
less  violent,  but  deeply  moved,  kneeling  beside  her. 

Now  came  strong  outbreakings  of  passion  from  this  woman ; in- 
terrupted indeed,  and  pulse-wise ; a stream  of  words,  leaping  like 
a stream  in  gushes  from  rock  to  rock.  A natural  language,  short 
and  discontinuous,  made  itself  impressive  and  pathetic  : in  vain 
should  we  attempt  translating  it  into  our  dialects ; the  approxi- 
mate purport  of  it  we  must  not  omit.  “ They  have  murdered  thee, 
poor  beast ! murdered  without  need ! Thou  wert  tame,  and  wouldst 
fain  have  lain  down  at  rest  and  waited  our  coming  ; for  thy  foot- 
balls were  sore,  thy  claws  had  no  force  left.  The  hot  sun  to  ripen 
them  was  wanting.  Thou  wert  the  beautifullest  of  thy  kind : who 
ever  saw  a kingly  tiger  so  gloriously  stretched-out  in  sleep,  as  thou 
here  liest,  dead,  never  to  rise  more  ? "When  thou  awokest  in  the 
early  dawn  of  morning,  and  openedst  thy  throat,  stretching  out 
thy  red  tongue,  thou  wert  as  if  smiling  on  us  ; and  even  when  bel- 
lowing, thou  tookest  thy  food  from  the  hands  of  a woman,  from 
the  fingers  of  a child.  How  long  have  we  gone  with  thee  on  thy 
journeys;  how  long  has  thy  company  been  useful  and  fruitful  to 
us ! To  us,  to  us  of  a very  truth,  meat  came  from  the  eater,  and 
sweetness  out  of  the  strong.  So  will  it  be  no  more.  Woe! 
woe ! ” 

She  had  not  done  lamenting,  when  over  the  smoother  part-  of  the 
Castle  Mountain  came  riders  rushing  down ; soon  recognised  as 
the  Prince’s  Hunting-train,  himself  the  foremost.  Following  their 
sport,  in  the  backward  hills,  they  had  observed  the  fire-vapours ; 
and  fast  through  dale  and  ravine,  as  in  fierce  chase,  taken  the 
shortest  path  towards  this  mournful  sign.  Galloping  along  the 
stony  vacancy,  they  stopped  and  stared  at  sight  of  the  unexpected 
group,  which  in  that  empty  expanse  stood  out  so  mark-worthy. 
After  the  first  recognition,  there  was  silence ; some  pause  of 
breathing-time,  and  then  what  the  view  itself  did  not  impart,  was 
with  brief  words  explained.  So  stood  the  Prince,  contemplating 
the  strange  unheard-of  incident ; a circle  round  him  of  riders,  and , 
followers  that  had  run  on  foot.  What  to  do  was  still  undeter- 
mined ; the  Prince  intent  on  ordering,  executing ; when  a man 
pressed  forward  into  the  circle ; large  of  stature,  particoloured, 
wondrously  apparelled,  like  wife  and  child.  And  now  the  family, 
in  union,  testified  their  sorrow  and  astonishment.  The  man,  how- 
ever, soon  restrained  himself ; bowed  in  reverent  distance  before 
the  Prince,  and  said  : “ It  is  not  the  time  for  lamenting  ; alas,  my 
lord  and  mighty  hunter,  the  Lion  too  is  loose ; hither  towards  the 


APPENDIX. 


99 


moimtains  is  he  gone  : but  spare  him,  have  mercy,  that  he  perish 
not  like  this  good  beast.” 

“The  Lion  ! ” said  the  Prince  : “ Hast  thou  the  trace  of  him  ? ” 
—“Yes,  Lord!  A peasant  down  there,  who  had  heedlessly  taken 
shelter  on  a tree,  directed  me  farther  up  this  way,  to  the  left ; but 
I saw  the  crowd  of  men  and  horses  here  ; anxious  for  tidings  of 
assistance,  I hastened  hither.” — “ So  then,”  commanded  the 
Prince,  “ draw  to  the  left,  Huntsmen  ; you  will  load  your  pieces, 
go  softly  to  work  ; if  you  drive  him  into  the  deep  woods,  it  is  no 
matter : but  in  the  end,  good  man,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  kill  your 
animal : why  were  you  improvident  enough  to  let  him  loose?” — 
“ The  fire  broke  out,”  replied  he;  “we  kept  quiet  and  attentive  ; 
it  spread  fast,  but  at  a distance  from  us ; we  had  water  enough  for 
our  defence  ; but  a heap  of  powder  blew  up,  and  threw  the  brands 
on  to  us,  and  over  our  heads ; we  were  too  hasty,  and  are  now 
ruined  people.” 

The  Prince  was  still  busy  directing ; but  for  a moment  all  seemed 
to  pause,  as  a man  was  observed  hastily  springing  down  from  the 
heights  of  the  old  Castle  ; whom  the  troop  soon  recognised  for  the 
watchman  that  had  been  stationed  there  to  keep  the  Painter’s 
apartment,  while  he  lodged  there  and  took  charge  of  the  workmen. 
He  came  running,  out  of  breath,  yet  in  a few  words  soon  made 
known,  That  the  Lion  had  lain  himself  down,  within  the  high 
ring-wall,  in  the  sunshine,  at  the  foot  of  a large  beech,  and  was 
behaving  quite  quietly.  With  an  air  of  vexation,  however,  the 
man  concluded  : “ W'hv  did  I take  my  rifle  to  town  yesternight, 
to  have  it  cleaned  ? he  had  never  risen  again,  the  skin  had  been 
mine,  and  I might  all  my  life  have  had  the  credit  of  the  thing.” 

The  Prince,  whom  his  military  experiences  here  also  stood  in 
stead,  for  he  had  before  now  been  in  situations  where  from  various 
sides  inevitable  evil  seemed  to  threaten,  said  hereupon  : “ WTkat 
surety  do  you  give  me  that  if  we  spare  your  Lion,  he  will  not  work 
destruction  among  us,  among  my  people  ? ” 

“ This  woman  and  this  child,”  answered  the  father  hastily,  “ en- 
gage to  tame  him,  to  keep  him  peaceable,  till  I bring  up  the  cage, 
and  then  we  can  carry  him  back  unharmed  and  without  harming 
any  one.” 

The  boy  put  his  flute  to  his  lips ; an  instrument  of  the  kind 
once  named  soft,  or  sweet  flutes  ; sliort-beaked  like  pipes : he, 
who  understood  the  art,  could  bring  out  of  it  the  gracefullest 
tones.  Meanwhile  the  Prince  had  inquired  of  the  watchman  how 
the  lion  came  up.  “ By  the  hollow-way,”  answered  he,  “ which  is 


100 


APPENDIX. 


walled-in  on  both  sides,  and  was  formerly  the  only  entrance,  and 
is  to  be  the  only  one  still : two  footpaths,' which  led  in  elsewhere, 
we  have  so  blocked  up  and  destroyed  that  no  human  being,  ex- 
cept by  that  first  narrow  passage,  can  reach  the  Magic  Castle 
which  Prince  Friedrich’s  talent  and  taste  is  making  of  it.” 

After  a little  thought,  during  which  the  Prince  looked  round  at 
the  boy,  who  still  continued  as  if  softly  jireluding,  he  turned  to 
Honorio,  and  said  : ‘ ‘ Thou  hast  done  much  to-day,  complete  thy 
task.  Secure  that  narrow  path  ; keep  your  rifles  in  readiness,  but 
do  not  shoot  till  the  creature  can  no  otherwise  be  driven  back : in 
any  case,  kindle  a fire,  which  will  frighten  him  if  he  make  down- 
wards. The  man  and  woman  take  charge  of  the  rest.”  Honorio 
rapidly  bestirred  himself  to  execute  these  orders. 

The  child  continued  his  tune,  which  was  no  tune ; a series  of 
notes  without  law,  and  perhaps  even  on  that  account  so  heart- 
touching : the  bystanders  seemed  as  if  enchanted  by  the  move- 
ment of  a song-like  melody,  when  the  father  with  dignified  enthu- 
siasm begun  to  speak  in  this  sort : 

“ God  has  given  the  Prince  wisdom,  and  also  knowledge  to  dis- 
cern that  all  God’s  works  are  wise,  each  after  its  kind.  Behold 
the  rock,  how  he  stands  fast  and  stirs  not,  defies  the  weather  and 
the  sunshine ; primeval  trees  adorn  his  head,  and  so  crowned  he 
looks  abroad ; neither  if  a mass  rush  away,  will  this  continue 
what  it  was,  but  falls  broken  into  many  pieces  and  covers  the  side 
of  the  descent.  But  there  too  they  will  not  tarry,  capriciously 
they  leap  far  down,  the  brook  receives  them,  to  the  river  he  bears 
them.  Not  resisting,  not  contradictory,  angular ; no,  smooth  and 
rounded  they  travel  now  quicker  on  their  way,  arrive,  from  river 
to  river,  finally  at  the  ocean,  whither  march  the  giants  in  hosts, 
and  in  the  depths  whereof  dwarfs  are  busy. 

“But  who  shall  exalt  the  glory  of  the  Lord,  whom  the  stars 
praise  from  Eternity  to  Eternity  ! Why  look  ye  far  into  the  dis- 
tance ? Consider  here  the  bee  : late  at  the  end  of  harvest  she  still 
busily  gathers  ; builds  her  a house,  tight  of  corner,  straight  of 
wall,  herself  the  architect  and  mason.  Behold  the  ant : she  knows 
her  way,  and  loses  it  not ; she  piles  her  a dwelling  of  grass-halms, 
earth-crumbs,  and  needles  of  the  fir  ; she  piles  it  aloft  and  arches 
it  in ; but  she  has  laboured  in  vain,  for  the  horse  stamps,  and 
scrapes  it  all  in  pieces  : lo ! he  has  trodden-down  her  beams,  and 
scattered  her  planks  ; impatiently  he  snorts,  and  cannot  rest ; for 
the  Lord  has  made  the  horse  comrade  of  the  wind  and  companion 
of  the  storm,  to  carry  man  whither  he  wills,  and  woman  whither 


APPENDIX. 


101 


she  desires.  But  in  the  Wood  of  Palms  arose  he,  the  Lion  ; with 
earnest  step  traversed  the  wildernesses ; there  rules  he  over  all 
creatures  ; his  might  who  shall  withstand  ? Yet  man  can  tame 
him  ; and  the  fiercest  of  living  things  has  reverence  for  the  image 
of  God,  in  which  too  the  angels  are  made,  who  serve  the  Lord  and 
his  servants.  For  in  the  den  of  Lions  Daniel  was  not  afraid  ; he 
remained  fast  and  faithful,  and  the  wild  bellowing  interrupted 
not  his  song  of  praise.” 

This  speech,  delivered  with  expression  of  a natural  enthusiasm, 
the  child  accompanied  here  and  there  with  graceful  tones  ; but 
now,  the  father  having  ended,  he,  with  clear  melodious  voice  and 
skilful  passaging,  struck  up  his  warble  ; whereupon  the  father 
took  the  flute,  and  gave  note  in  unison,  while  the  child  sang  : 

From  the  Dens,  I,  in  a deeper, 

Prophet’s  song  of  praise  can  hear  ; 

Angel-host  he  hath  for  keeper, 

Needs  the  good  man  there  to  fear  ? 

Lion,  Lioness,  agazing, 

Mildly  pressing  round  him  came  ; 

Yea,  that  humble,  holy  praising, 

It  hath  made  them  tame. 

The  father  continued,  accompanying  this  strophe  with  his  flute  ; 
the  mother  here-and  there  touched-in  as  second  voice. 

Impressive,  however,  in  a quite  peculiar  degree,  it  was,  when 
the  child  now  began  to  shuffle  the  lines  of  the  strophe  into  other 
arrangement ; and  thereby  if  not  bring  out  a new  sense,  yet 
heighten  the  feeling  by  leading  it  into  self-excitement : 

Angel-host  around  doth  hover, 

Us  in  heavenly  tones  to  cheer  ; 

In  the  Dens  our  head  doth  cover, — ■ 

Needs  the  poor  child  there  to  fear  ? 

For  that  humble  holy  praising 
Will  permit  no  evil  nigh  : 

Angels  hover,  keeping,  gazing  ; 

Who  so  safe  as  I ? 

Hereupon  with  emphasis  and  elevation  began  all  three  : 

For  th’  Eternal  rules  above  us, 

Lands  and  oceans  rules  his  -will ; 

Lions  even  as  lambs  shall  love  us, 

And  the  proudest  waves  be  still. 

Whetted  sword  to  scabbard  cleaving, 

Faith  and  Hope  victorious  see  ; 

Strong,  who,  loving  and  believing, 

Prays,  O Lord,  to  thee. 


102 


APPENDIX. 


All  were  silent,  bearing,  hearkening ; and  only  when  the  tones 
ceased  could  you  remark  and  distinguish  the  impression  they  had 
made.  All  was  as  if  appeased ; each  affected  in  his  way.  The 
Prince,  as  if  he  now  first  saw  the  miseiy  that  a little  ago  had 
threatened  him,  looked  down  on  his  spouse,  w7ho  leaning  on  him 
forebore  not  to  draw  out  the  little  embroidered  handkerchief,  and 
therewith  covered  her  eyes.  It  was  blessedness  for  her  to  feel  her 
young  bosom  relieved  from  the  pressure  with  which  the  preceding 
minutes  had  loaded  it.  A perfect  silence  reigned  over  the  crowd ; 
they  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  dangers : the  conflagration 
below  ; and  above,  the  rising-up  of  a dubiously-reposing  Lion. 

By  a sign  to  bring  the  horses,  the  Prince  first  restored  the  group 
to  motion ; he  turned  to  the  woman  and  said:  “You  think  then 
that,  once  find  the  Lion,  you  corrld,  by  vour  singing,  by  the  sing- 
ing of  this  child,  with  help  'of  these  flute-tones,  appease  him, 
and  carry  him  back  to  his  prison,  unhurt  and  hurting  no  one  ? ” 
They  answered  Yres,  assuring  and  affirming;  the  castellan  was 
given  them  as  guide.  And  now  the  Prince  started  off  in  all  speed 
with  a few  ; the  Princess  followed  slower,  with  the  rest  of  the  train : 
mother  and  son,  on  their  side,  under  conduct  of  the  warder, who  had 
got  himself  a musket,  mounted  up  the  steeper  part  of  the  height. 

Before  the  entrance  of  the  hollow-wav  which  opened  their  access 
to  the  Castle,  they  found  the  hunters  busy  heaping-up  dry  brush- 
wood, to  have,  in  any  case,  a large  fire  ready  for  kindling.  “ There 
is  no  need,”  said  the  woman  : “ it  will  all  go  well  and  peaceably, 
without  that.” 

Farther  on,  sitting  on  a wall,  his  double-barrel  resting  in  liis 
lap,  Honorio  appeared ; at  his  post,  as  if  ready  for  every  occur- 
rence. However,  he  seemed  hardly  to  notice  our  party ; he  sat  as 
if  sunk  in  deep  thoughts,  he  looked  round  like  one  whose  mind 
was  not  there.  The  woman  addressed  him  with  a prayer  not  to  let 
the  fire  be  lit ; he  appeared  not  to  heed  her  words  ; she  spoke  on 
with  vivacity,  and  cried : “ Handsome  young  man,  thou  hast  killed 
my  tiger,  I do  not  curse  thee ; spare  my  lion,  good  young  man, 
I will  bless  thee.” 

Honorio  was  looking  straight  out  before  him,  to  where  the  sun 
on  his  course  began  to  sink.  “Thou  lookest  to  the  west,”  cried 
the  woman  ; “ thou  dost  well,  there  is  much  to  do  there ; hasten, 
delay  not,  thou  wilt  conquer.  But  first  conquer  thyself.”  At  this 
he  appeared  to  give  a smile ; the  woman  stept . on ; could  not, 
however,  but  look  back  once  more  at  him  : a ruddy  sun  was  irradiat- 
ing his  face  ; she  thought  she  had  never  seen  a handsomer  youth. 


APPENDIX. 


103 


“ If  your  child,”' said  the  warder  now,  “ with  his  fluting  and 
singing,  can,  as  you  are  persuaded,  entice  and  pacify  the  Lion,  we 
shall  soon  get  mastery  of  him  after,  for  the  creature  has  lain  down 
quite  close  to  the  perforated  vaults  through  which,  as  the  main 
passage  was  blocked  up  with  ruins,  we  had  to  bore  ourselves  an 
entrance  into  the  Castle-Court.  If  the  child  entice  him  into  this 
latter,  I can  close  the  ojiening  with  little  difficulty ; then  the  boy, 
if  he  like,  can  glide  out  by  one  of  the  little  spiral  stairs  he  will 
find  in  the  corner.  We  must  conceal  ourselves ; but  I shall  so 
take  my  place  that  a rifle-ball  can,  at  any  moment,  help  the  poor 
child  iu  case  of  extremity.” 

‘ ‘ All  these  precautions  are  unnecessary  ; God  and  skill,  piety 
and  a blessing,  must  do  the  work.” — “ May  be,”  replied  the 
warder  ; “ however,  I know  my  duties.  First,  I must  lead  you,  by 
a difficult  path,  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  right  opposite  the  vaults 
and  opening  I have  mentioned : the  child  may  then  go  down,  as 
into  the  arena  of  the  show,  and  lead  away  the  animal,  if  it  will  fol- 
low him.”  This  was  done : warder  and  mother  looked  dowm  in 
concealment,  as  the  child  descending  the  screw-stairs,  showed 
himself  in  the  open  space  of  the  Court,  and  disappeared  opposite 
them  in  the  gloomy  opening  ; but  forthwith  gave  his  flute  voice, 
which  by-and-by  grew  weaker,  and  at  last  sank  dumb.  The  pause 
was  bodeful  enough ; the  old  hunter,  familiar  with  danger,  felt 
heart-sick  at  the  singular  conjecture ; the  mother,  however,  with 
cheerful  face,  bending  over  to  listen,  showed  not  the  smallest  dis- 
composure. 

At  last  the  flute  was  again  heard ; the  child  stept  forth  from  the 
cavern  with  glittering  satisfied  eyes,  the  Lion  after  him,  but 
slowly,  and  as  it  seemed  with  difficulty.  He  showed  here  and 
there  desire  to  lie  down  ; yet  the  boy  led  him  in  a half-circle 
through  the  few  disleaved  many-tinted  trees,  till  at  length,  in  the 
last  rays  of  the  sun,  which  poured-in  through  a hole  in  the  ruins, 
he  set  him  down,  as  if  transfigured  in  the  bright  red  light ; and 
again  commenced  his  pacifying  song,  the  repetition  of  which  we 
also  cannot  forbear : 

From  the  Dens,  I,  in  a deeper, 

Prophet’s  song  of  praise  can  hear  ; 

Angel-host  he  hath  for  keeper. 

Needs  the  good  man  there  to  fear  ? 

Lion,  Lioness,  agazing. 

Mildly  pressing  round  him  came  ; 

Yea,  that  humble,  holy  praising, 

It  hath  made  them  tame. 


104 


APPENDIX. 


Meanwhile  the  Lion  had  laid  itself  down  quite  close  to  the  child, 
and  lifted  its  heavy  right  fore-paw  into  his  bosom  ; the  boy  as  he 
sung  gracefully  stroked  it ; but  was  not  long  in  observing  that  a 
shaip  thorn  had  stuck  itself  between  the  balls.  He  carefully  pulled 
it  out ; with  a smile,  took  the  particoloured  silk-handkerchief 
from  his  neck,  and  bound  up  the  frightful  paw  of  the  monster ; so 
that  his  mother  for  joy  bent  herself  back  with  outstretched  arms  ; 
and  perhaps,  according  to  custom,  would  have  shouted  and  clapped 
applause,  had  not  a hard  hand-gripe  of  the  warder  reminded  her 
that  the  danger  was  not  yet  over. 

Triumphantly  the  child  sang  on,  having  with  a few  tones  pre- 
luded : 

For  th’  Eternal  rules  above  ns, 

Lands  and  oceans  rules  his  will ; 

Lions  even  as  lambs  shall  love  us, 

And  the  proudest  waves  be  still 

Whetted  sword  to  scabbard  cleaving, 

Faith  and  Hope  victorious  see  : 

Strong,  who,  loving  and  believing, 

Prays,  O Lord,  to  thee. 

Were  it  possible  to  fancy  that  in  the  countenance  of  so  grim  a 
creature,  the  tyrant  of  the  woods,  the  despot  of  the  animal  king- 
dom, an  expression  of  friendliness,  of  thankful  contentment  could 
be  traced,  then  here  was  such  traceable  ; and  truly  the  child,  in 
his  illuminated  look,  had  the  air  as  of  a mighty  triumphant  victor  ; 
the  other  figure,  indeed,  not  that  of  one  vanquished,  for  his  strength 
lay  concealed  in  him  ; but  yet  of  one  tamed,  of  one  given  up  to  his 
own  peaceful  will.  The  child  fluted  and  sung  on,  changing  the 
lines  according  to  his  way,  and  adding  new  : 

And  so  to  good  children  bringeth 
Blessed  Angel  help  in  need  ; 

Fetters  o’er  the  cruel  flingeth, 

Worthy  act  with  wings  doth  speed. 

So  have  tamed,  and  firmly  iron’d 
To  a poor  child’s  feeble  knee, 

Him  the  forest’s  lordly  tj’rant, 

Pious  Thought  and  Melody. 


APPENDIX. 


105 


. IL 

SCHILLER,  GOETHE  AX'D  MADAME  DE  STALL.' 

[1832.] 

In  this  age,  by  some  called  the  Locomotive,  when  men  travel 
wish  all  manner  of  practical,  scientific  and  unscientific  purposes  ; 
to  fish  Mexican  oysters,  and  convert  the  heathen  ; in  search  of  the 
picturesque,  in  search  of  cheap  land,  good  groceries,  bibliography, 
wives,  new  cookery,  and,  generally,  though  without  effect,  in  search 
of  happiness  ; when  even  kings,  queens  and  constitutions,  are  so 
often  sent  on  their  travels  ; and  what  with  railways,  what  with  rev- 
olutions, absolutely  nothing  will  stay  in  its  place. — the  interest 
that  once  attached  to  mere  travellers  is  gone  : no  Othello  could 
now  by  such  means  win  the  simplest  Desdemona.  Nevertheless, 
in  Madame  de  Stael’s  Travels  there  is  still  something  peculiar. 
Shut  out  from  her  bright  beloved  Paris,  she  gyrates  round  it  in  a 
wider  or  narrower  circle.  Haunted  with  danger,  affliction,  love  of 
knowledge,  and  above  all  with  ennui,  she  sets  forth  in  her  private 
carriage  on  two  intermingled  errands  : first,  ‘ to  find  noble  char- 
acters ; ’ secondly,  ‘ to  study  national  physiognomies.’  The  most 
distinguished  female  living  wall  see  face  to  face  the  most  distin- 
guished personages  living,  be  they  male  or  female  ; will  have  sweet 
counsel  with  them,  or,  in  philosophic  tourney,  ‘ free  passages  of 
arms  ; ’ will  gauge  them  with  her  physiognomical  callipers,  and, 
if  so  seem  fit,  print  their  dimensions  in  books.  Not  to  study  the 
charters,  police  and  economy  of  nations  ; to  stand  in  their  council- 
halls,  workshops,  dress-shops  and  social  assemblages  ; least  of  all, 
to  gaze  on  waterfalls,  and  ruined  robber-towers,  and  low  over  them, 
as  the  cattle  on  a thousand  hills  can  do,  is  she  posting  through  the 
world  : but  to  read  the  living  book  of  man,  as  written  in  various 
tongues ; nay,  to  read  the  chrestomathy  and  diamond-edition  of 
that  living  polyglot  book  of  man,  wherein,  for  clear  eyes,  all  his 
subordinate  performances,  practices  and  arrangements,  or  the  best 
spirit  of  these  stand  legible.  It  is  a tour,  therefore,  not  for  this 
or  that  object  of  culture,  this  or  that  branch  of  wisdom ; but  for 
culture  generally,  for  wisdom  itself  : and  combines  with  this  dis- 
tinction that  of  being  a true  tour  of  knight-errantry,  and  search 
of  spiritual  adventures  and  feats  of  intellect, — the  only  kniglit-er- 
i Fraser's  Magazine,  No.  26. 


100 


APPENDIX. 


rantry  practicable  in  these  times.  Witli  such  high-soaring  views, 
Madame  first  penetrated  into  Germany  in  1803 ; and  conld  not 
miss  Weimar,  where  the  flower  of  intellectual  Germany  was  then 
assembled. 

The  figure  of  such  a three  as  Goethe,  Schiller  and  De  Stael,  to 
whom  Wieland,  Muller  and  other  giants,  might  be  joined,  rises 
beautiful  in  our  imagination,  and  throws  powder  in  the  eyes ; and 
perhaps,  for  merely  poetic  purposes,  it  were  best  if  we  left  it  in- 
vested with  that  rose-coloured  cloud,  and  pried  no  deeper.  But 
insatiable  curiosity  will  nowise  let  the  matter  rest  there  ; Science, 
as  well  as  Fancy,  must  have  its  satisfaction.  The  ‘ spiritual  Ama- 
zon ’ was  a mortal  woman  ; those  philosophic  jous tings  and  sym- 
posia were  also  transacted  on  our  common  clay  earth : behind  that 
gorgeous  arras,  of  which  we  see  not  the  knotty  side,  who  knows  what 
vulgar,  angular  stone  and  mortar  lies  concealed ! In  the  Sixth 
Volume  of  the  Correspondence  between  Schiller  and  Goethe,  lately 
published ; still  more,  in  the  Thirty-first  Volume  of  Goethe’s 
Works,  even  now  publishing,  where,  under  the  title  of  Tag-  und 
Jahres-Heft , is  a continuation  of  his  Autobiography,  we  find  some 
indications  and  disclosures.  These  the  British  world,  for  insight 
into  this  matter,  shall  now  also  behold,  in  juxtaposition,  if  not 
in  combination.  Of  Madame  in  London  there  are  some  sketches 
in  Byron’s  Letters,  but  more  in  the  way  of  daubing  than  of  paint- 
ing ; done  too,  not  with  philosophic  permanent-colours,  but  with 
mere  dandyic  ochre  and  japan,  which  last  were  but  indifferently 
applicable  here.  The  following  are  in  a more  artistic  style,  and 
may  be  relied  on  as  sincere  and  a real  likeness. 

We  give  the  whole  series  of  Notices,  which  we  have  translated, 
long  and  short,  arranged  according  to  the  order  of  dates,  beginning 
with  the  first  note  of  distant  preparation,  and  ending  with  the  latest 
reminiscence.  Goethe  is,  for  the  time,  at  Jena,  engaged  in 
laborious  official  duties  of  a literary  kind,  when,  on  the  30th  of 
November  1803,  Schiller  thus  finishes  a letter  to  him  from  Weimar : 

‘ Madame  de  Stael  is  actually  in  Frankfort,  and  we  may  soon 
‘ look  for  her  here.  If  she  but  understand  German,  I doubt  not 
‘ we  shall  do  our  part ; but  to  preach  our  religion  to  her  in  French 
‘ phrases,  and  standing  the  brunt  of  French  volubility,  were  too 
‘ hard  a problem.  We  should  not  get  through  so  cleverly  as 
‘ Schelling  did  with  Camille  Jourdan.  Farewell.’ 

The  next  will  explain  themselves : 


APPENDIX. 


107 


‘ Jena,  13th  December  1803. 

‘ It  was  to  be  foreseen,  that  when  Madame  de  Stael  came  to  Wei- 
‘ mar,  I shoirld  be  called  thither.  I have  taken  counsel  with  my- 
‘ self,  that  the  moment  might  not  surprise  me,  and  determined  on 
‘ staying  here.  For  the  laborious  and  dubious  business  that  now 
‘ lies  on  me,  whatever  physical  force  I have,  especially  in  this  bad 
‘ month,  will  scantily  suffice ; from  the  intellectual  surveyance 
1 down  to  the  mechanical  typographical  department,  I need  to  have 
‘ it  all  before  me.  * * * * You,  my  dear  friend,  see,  not  with- 
‘ out  horror,  what  a case  I am  in  ; with  Meyer,  indeed,  to  comfort 
‘ me,  yet  without  help  or  complete  fellow-feeling  from  any  one : 

‘ for  whatever  is  so  much  as  possible,  our  people  look  upon  as  easy. 

‘ Wherefore,  I entreat  you,  take  my  place ; guide  the  whole  matter 
‘ for  the  best,  so  far  as  possible.  If  Madame  de  Stael  please  to 
‘ visit  me,  she  shall  be  well  received.  Let  me  but  know  four-and- 
‘ twenty  hours  beforehand,  and  part  of  the  Loder  apartments  shall 
‘ be  furnished  to  lodge  her ; she  will  find  a burgher’s  table,  and 
‘ welcome ; we  shall  actually  meet  and  speak  together ; she  can 
‘ stay  while  such  remains  her  pleasure.  What  I have  to  do  here 
‘ is  transacted  in  separate  half-hours  ; the  rest  of  my  time  shall  be 
‘ hers  : but  in  this  weather  to  go  and  to  come,  to  dress,  appear  at 
‘ court  and  in  company,  is,  once  for  all,  impossible,  as  decisively 
‘ as  ever  you,  in  the  like  condition,  have  pronounced  it. 

* All  this  I commit  to  your  friendly  guidance,  for  there  is  nothing 
‘ that  would  gratify  me  more  than  to  see  this  distinguished  lady, 

‘ and  personally  make  acquaintance  with  her ; really  glad  were  I, 
‘ could  she  spend  these  two  leagues  of  road  on  me.  Worse  quar- 
‘ ters  than  await  her  here  she  has  been  used  to  by  the  way.  Do 
‘ you  lead  and  manage  these  conditions  with  your  delicate  and  kind 
‘ hand,  and  send  me  an  express  when  anything  decided  occurs. 

‘ Good  speed  to  all  that  your  solitude  produces,  as  yourself  could 
‘ wish  and  will ! For  me,  I am  rowing  in  a foreign  element ; nay, 
‘ I might  say,  only  splashing  and  spluttering  therein,  with  loss  for 
‘ the  outward  man,  and  without  the  smallest  satisfaction  for  the  in- 
‘ ward  or  from  the  inward.  But  after  all,  if  it  be  true,  as  Homer 
‘ and  Polygnotes  teach  me  more  and  more,  that  we  poor  mortals 
‘ have  properly  a kind  of  hell  to  enact  in  this  earth  of  ours,  such  a 
‘ life  may  pass  among  the  rest.  A thousand  farewells  in  the  celes- 
‘ tial  sense ! 


‘ Goethe.’ 


108 


APPENDIX. 


‘ Weimar,  lUh  December  1803. 

‘ Against  your  reasons  for  not  coming  hither  there  is  nothing 

* solid  to  be  urged  ; I have  stated  them  with  all  impressiveness  to 
‘the  Duke.  For  Madame  de  Stael  herself  too,  it  must  be  much 
‘ pleasanter  to  see  you  without  that  train  of  dissipation  ; and  for 
‘ yourself,  under  such  an  arrangement,  this  acquaintance  may  prove 
‘ areal  satisfaction,  which  were  otherwise  a burden  not  to  be  borne. 

* * ■*  * * * * 

‘ Fare  you  heartily  well ; keep  sound  and  cheerful,  and  deal 

* gently  with  the  Pilgrimess  that  wends  towards  you.  'When  I hear 

* more,  you  shall  learn.  * Scheller. 

‘ P.  S.  The  Duke  gives  me  answer  that  he  will  write  to  you 
‘ himself,  and  speak  with  me  in  the  Theatre.  ’ 


‘ Weimar,  21  st  December  1803. 

‘ The  rapid  and  truly  toilsome  alternation  of  productive  solitude  1 
‘ with  formal  society,  and  its  altogether  heterogeneous  dissipations, 
* so  fatigued  me  last  week,  that  I absolutely  could  not  take  the 
‘ pen,  and  left  it  to  my  wife  to  give  you  some  picture  of  us. 

‘ Madame  de  Stael  you  will  find  quite  as  you  have  a priori 
‘ construed  her  : she  is  all  of  one  piece  ; there  is  no  adventitious, 
‘ false,  pathological  speck  in  her.  Hereby  is  it  that,  notwith- 
‘ standing  the  immeasurable  difference  in  temper  and  way  of 
‘ thought,  one  is  perfectly  at  ease  with  her,  can  hear  all  from 
‘ her,  and  say  all  to  her.  She  represents  French  culture  in  its 
‘ purity,  and  under  a most  interesting  aspect.  In  all  that  we 
‘ name  philosophy,  therefore  in  all  highest  and  ultimate  questions, 
‘ one  is  at  issue  witlrher,  and  remains  so  in  spite  of  all  arguing. 
‘ But  her  nature,  her  feeling,  is  better  than  her  metaphysics  ; and 
‘ her  fine  understanding  rises  to  the  rank  of  genial.  She  insists 
‘ on  explaining  everything,  on  seeing  into  it,  measuring  it ; she 
‘ allows  nothing  dark,  inaccessible  ; whithersoever  her  torch  can- 
‘ not  throw  its  light,  there  nothing  exists  for  her.  Hence  follows 
‘ an  aversion,  a horror,  for  the  transcendental  philosophy,  which 
‘ in  her  view  leads  to  mysticism  and  superstition.  This  is  the  car- 
‘bonic  gas  in  which  she  dies.  For  what  we  call  poetry  there 
‘ is  no  sense  in  her  : from  such  works  it  is  only  the  passionate,  the 
‘ oratorical,  the  intellectual,  that  she  can  appropriate  ; yet  she  will 
‘ endure  no  falsehood  there,  only  does  not  always  recognise  the  true. 

1 Schiller  was  now  busied  with  Wilhelm  Tell  : on  which  last  and  greatest 
of  his  Dramas  this  portion  of  the  Correspondence  with  Goethe  mainly  turns. 


APPENDIX. 


109 


‘ You  infer  from  these  few  words  that  the  clearness,  decidedness 
‘ and  rich  vivacity  of  her  nature  cannot  but  affect  one  favourably. 

‘ Our  only  grievance  is  the  altogether  unprecedented  glibness  of 
‘ her  tongue  : you  must  make  yourself  all  ear,  if  you  would  follow 
‘ her.  Nevertheless,  as  even  I,  with  my  small  faculty  of  speaking 
‘ French,  get  along  quite  tolerably  with  her,  you,  with  your  greater 
£ practice,  will  find  communication  very  easy. 

‘ My  proposals  were,  that  you  came  over  on  Saturday ; opened 
‘the  acquaintance,  and  then  returned  on  Sunday  to  your  Jena 
‘ business.  If  she  stay  longer  than  the  new  year,  you  will  find 
‘ her  here  ; if  she  leave  us  sooner,  she  can  still  visit  you  in  J ena 
‘ before  going. 

‘ The  great  point  at  present  is,  that  you  hasten  to  get  a sight 
‘ of  her,  and  so  free  yourself  of  the  stretch  of  expectation.  If 
* you  can  come  sooner  than  Saturday,  so  much  the  better. 

‘ For  the  present,  farewell.  My  labour  has  not,  indeed,  ad- 
1 vanced  much  this  week,  but  also  not  stood  still.  It  is  truly  a 
‘ pity  that  this  so  interesting  Phenomenon  should  have  come  upon 
‘ us  at  the  wrong  season,  when  pressing  engagements,  bad 
‘ weather,  and  the  sad  public  occurrences  over  which  one  cannot 
‘ rise  quite  triumphant,  conspire  to  oppress  us.  ‘ Schuller.’ 

Goethe,  having  finished  his  work,  returns  to  Weimar,  but  not  in 
health.  We  find  no  mention  of  Madame  till  the  4th  of  January, 
and  then  only  this  : 

* * * * ‘Of  the  Lady  de  Stael  I hear  nothing  : I hope  she 
‘ is  busy  with  Benjamin  Constant.  What  'would  I give  for  quiet- 
‘ ness,  liberty  and  health,  through  the  next  four'  -weeks  ! I should 
‘ then  have  almost  done.  ‘ Schiller.  ’ 


(Apparently  of  the  same  date.) 

‘ Here  come  the  new  Periodicals,  with  the  request  that  yc  u 
‘ would  forward  them,  after  use,  to  Meyer : especially  I rcc- 
‘ ommend  No.  13  to  notice.  So  there  is  nothing  new  under  the 
‘ sun  ? And  did  not  our  accomplished  Pilgrimess  assure  me  this 
‘ morning,  with  the  utmost  naivete , that  whatever  words  of  mine 
‘ she  could  lay  hold  of,  she  meant  to  print  ? That  story  about 
‘ Rousseau's  Letters  1 does  her  no  good  with  me  at  present.  One  sees 
‘ oneself  and  the  foolish  French  petticoat-ambition  as  in  a diamond- 
‘ adamant  mirror.’  The  best  wishes  for  you.  ‘ Goethe.’ 

1 This  will  explain  itself  afterwards. 


110 


APPENDIX. 


{No  date.) 

* * * * ‘ Madame  de  Stael,  in  a note  to  my  wife,  this 

‘ morning,  speaks  of  a speedy  departure,  but  also  of  a very  probable 
‘ return  by  Weimar.  * * * ‘ Schiller.’ 

(Wo  date.) 

* * * ‘Madame  de  Stael  means  to  stay  three  weeks  yet. 
‘ Spite  of  all  her  French  hurry,  she  will  find,  I fear,  by  her  own  ex- 
‘ perience,  that  we  Germans  in  Weimar  are  also  a changeful  people, 
‘ — that  every  guest  should  know  when  to  be  gone.  * * * 

‘ Schiller.’ 

(Wo  date.) 

* * * ‘ De  Stael  I saw  yesterday  here,  and  shall  see  her  again 

‘ to-day  with  the  Duchess’s  mother.  It  is  the  old  story  with  her  : 
‘ one  would  think  of  theDanaides’  sieve,  if  Oknos  1 with  his  ass  did 
‘ not  rather  occur  to  one.  ‘ Schuler.’ 

13th  January  1804. 

* * * ‘Be  well  and  happy,  and  continue  by  your  noble  indus- 
‘ try  to  give  us  a fresh  interest  in  life  : stand  to  it  tightly  in  the 
‘ Hades  of  company,  and  plait  your  reeds  there  into  a right  stiff 
‘ rope,  that  there  may  be  something  to  chew. — Greeting  and  hail ! 

‘ Goethe.’ 

11th  January. 

* * * ‘ Your  Exposition  has  refreshed  me  and  nourished  me. 

‘ It  is  highly  proper  that  by  such  an  act,  at  this  time,  you  express 
‘ your  contradiction  of  our  importunate  Visitress ; the  case  would 
‘ grow  intolerable  otherwise. 

‘ Being  sick  at  present,  and  gloomy,  it  seems  to  me  impossible 
‘ that  I could  ever  hold  such  discourses  again.  It  is  positively  a 
‘ sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost  to  speak  even  one  word  according  to 
‘ her  dialect.  Had  she  taken  lessons  of  J ean  Paul,  she  would  not 
‘ have  stayed  so  long  in  Weimar : let  her  try  it  for  other  three 
‘ weeks  at  her  peril.  * * * * ‘ Schiller.’ 

21th  January. 

‘ To-day,  for  the  first  time,  I have  had  a visit  from  Madame  de 
‘ Stael.  It  is  still  the  same  feeling  : with  all  daintiness  she  bears 

1 Oknos,  a Greek  gentleman,  of  date  unknown,  diligently  plaits  a reed  rope, 
which  his  ass  as  diligently  eats.  This  Oknos  is  supposed  to  have  had  an  un- 
thrifty wife.  Hence  Schiller’s  allusion. 


APPENDIX. 


Ill 


* herself  rudely  enough,  as  a traveller  to  Hyperboreans,  whose 
‘ noble  old  pines  and  oaks,  whose  iron  and  amber,  civilised  peoiile 
‘ indeed  could  turn  to  use  and  ornament. 

‘ Meanwhile  she  forces  you  to  bring  out  the  old  worn  carpets,  by 
‘ way  of  guest-present,  and  the  old  rusty  weapons  to  defend  your- 
‘ self  Withal.  ‘Goethe.’ 

2 6th  January. 

* * * * 1 What  are  you  busy  with  for  to-day  and  to-morrow  ? 
‘ That  long-projected  French  reading  of  Madame  de  Stael’s  takes 
‘ place,  I hear,  to-morrow  evening.  However,  if  you  are  at  home 
‘ then,  and  in  the  mood,  I hereby  invite  myself,  for  I long  much  to 
‘ see  you.  ‘ Schiller.’ 


‘ Madame  de  Stael  was  here  to-day  with  Mtiller,  and  the  Duke 
‘ soon  joined  us  ; whereby  the  discourse  grew  very  lively  ; and  our 
‘ first  object,  that  of  revising  her  Translation  of  The  Fisher ,*  was 
‘ rendered  vain. 

****** 

1 To-morrow  evening,  about  five,  Benjamin  Constant  is  to  be  with 
‘ me.  If  you  can  look  in  later,  it  will  be  kindly  done.  Wishing 
‘ you  sound  sleep.  ‘ Goethe.’ 

8th  February. 

* * * < if  y0U  can  visit  me  to-night,  pray  mention  to  the 

‘ bearer  at  what  hour  you  would  like  the  carriage.  ‘ Goethe.’ 


* * * ‘ Being  in  quite  special  tune  for  working  to-dav,  I must 

‘ make  a long  evening  of  it,  and  doubt  whether  I shall  get  out  to 
‘ you.  Unhappily  I have  to  struggle  and  make  up  beforehand  for 
‘ the  loss  of  to-morrow,  being  engaged  to  dine  with  Madame  de 
‘ Stael  then.  ‘ Schiller.’ 


(On,  or  after , the  21  st  of  Feb.) 

* * * < To-night  we  shall  meet  at  Madame’s.  Yesterday  we 

‘ missed  you  sadly.  Many  a merry  matter  turned  up,  which  we 
‘ will  laugh  at  by  ourselves  some  day.  ‘ Schllleb.’ 

1 ‘ Das  Wasser  rauscht,  das  Wasser  schwoll, 

Ein  Fischer  sass  daran  ; ’ Ac. 

— a celebrated  little  poem  of  Goethe’s. 


112 


APPENDIX. 


[On,  or  after,  the  12th  of  March.) 

4 It  is  a riglit  comfort  to  me  that  you  offer  to  take  charge  of  Tell. 
4 If  I be  in  any  tolerable  state,  I ■will  certainly  come.  Since  I saw 
4 you  last  time  at  the  rehearsal,  I have  not  been  at  all  well : the 
4 weather  is  not  kind  to  me ; besides,  ever  since  the  departure  of 
‘ Madame,  I have  felt  no  otherwise  than  as  if  I had  risen  from  a 
4 severe  sickness.  4 Schiller.’ 

With  clipping  and  piecing  we  have  now  done ; but,  by  way  of 
hem  to  this  patchwork,  subjoin  the  passage  from  Goethe’s  Auto- 
biography 1 above  referred  to,  which  offers  us  a summary  and  brief 
synopsis  of  the  whole  circumstances, — written  long  afterwards,  in 
that  tone  of  cheerful  gravity,  combining  the  clearest  insight  with 
tolerance  and  kindly  humor,  to  which  no  reader  of  his  Dichtung 
unci  Wahrheit  can  be  a stranger. 

‘ Madame  de  Stael  came  to  Weimar  in  the  beginning  of  Decem- 
4 ber,  while  I was  still  at  Jena  busied  with  the  Programme. 
4 What  Schiller  wrote  me  on  the  21st  of  that  month  served  at  once 
4 to  instruct  me  touching  the  relation  which  her  presence  would 
4 give  rise  to.2 

4 As  I could  not  move  from  Jena  till  my  task  were  finished,  there 
4 came  tidings  and  delineations  to  me  of  many  kinds  how  the  lady 
4 bore  herself  and  was  received  ; and  I could  moderately  well  pre- 
4 scribe  for  myself  the  part  I had  to  play  : yet  it  all  turned  out 
4 quite  otherwise,  as  in  the  nest  year,  which  we  are  now  approach- 
4 ing,  must  be  shown. 

*•*■•**** 

1804. 

‘ Winter  had  come  on  with  full  violence,  the  roads  were  snowed- 
4 up  ; without  strong  effort  was  no  travelling.  Madame  de  Stael 
4 announced  herself  more  and  more  importunately.  My  business 
4 was  concluded,  and  I resolved  for  many  reasons  to  return  to 
4 Weimar  ; but  this  time,  also,  I felt  the  unwholesomeness  of  win- 
4 ter  residence  in  the  Castle.  The  so  dear-bought  experience  of 
4 1801  had  not  made  me  wiser : I returned  with  a bad  cold,  which, 

4 without  being  dangerous,  kept  me  some  days  in  bed,  and  then 
4 weeks  long  in  my  room  ; on  which  account,  a part  of  this  dis- 
4 tinguished  lady’s  stay  was  for  me  historical  only,  as  I learned 
4 what  happened  in  society  from  the  narratives  of  friends ; and 

1 Werke,  b.  xxxi.  ss.  170-6. 

" Here  follows  Schiller's  Letter,  which  we  have  given  already  sub  dato. 


APPENDIX. 


113 


‘ afterwards  too  our  personal  intercourse  had  to  be  managed  first 
‘ by  billets,  then  by  dialogues,  and,  later  still,  in  the  smallest 
‘ circle, — perhaps  the  most  favourable  way  both  for  learning  what 
‘ was  in  her,  and  imparting,  so  far  as  that  might  be,  what  was 
4 in  me. 

‘ With  decisive  vehemence  she  followed  her  purpose,  to  become 
‘ acquainted  with  our  circumstances,  coordinating  and  subordinat- 
‘ ing  them  to  her  ideas ; to  inform  herself  as  much  as  possible 
‘ concerning  individuals ; as  a woman  of  the  world,  to  gain  clear 
‘ views  of  our  social  relations  : with  her  deep  female  spirit  to  pen- 
4 etrate  and  see  through  our  general  inodes  of  representing  Man 
4 and  Nature,  which  is  called  our  philosophy.  Now,  though  I had 
‘ no  cause  to  simulate  with  her,  as  indeed,  even  when  I let  myself 
‘ have  free  course,  people  do  not  always  rightly  interpret  me  ; yet 

* here  there  was  an  extraneous  circumstance  at  work,  that  for  the 
‘ moment  made  me  shy.  I received,  just  at  that  time,  a newly- 
‘ published  French  book,  containing  the  correspondence  of  two 
‘ ladies  with  Rousseau.1  On  the  secluded,  inaccessible  -man, 

‘ these  fair  intruders  had  played-off  a downright  mystification, — 

‘ contriving  to  interest  him  in  certain  small  concerns,  and  draw 
‘ him  into  letter-writing ; which  letters,  when  they  had  enough 
4 of  the  joke,  they  lay  together,  and  send  forth  through  the"  press. 

‘ To  Madame  de  Stael  I expressed  my  dislike  of  the  proceed- 

* ings  ; she,  however,  took  the  matter  lightly  ; nay  seemed  to  ap- 

* plaud  it,  and  not  obscurely  signified  that  she  meant  to  deal  with 
4 us  much  in  the  same  way.  There  needed  no  more  to  put  me  on 
‘ my  guard,  in  some  measure  to  seal  me  up. 

‘ The  great  qualities  of  this  high-thinking  and  high-feeling  au- 
‘ thoress  lie  in  the  view  of  every  one  ; and  the  results  of  her  jour- 
‘ ney  through  Germany  testify  sufficiently  how  well  she  applied 
4 her  time  there. 

‘ Her  objects  were  manifold  : she  wished  to  know  Weimar,  to 
4 gain  accurate  acquaintance  with  its  moral,  social,  literary  aspects, 

4 and  what  else  it  offered  ; farther,  however,  she  herself  also 
4 wished  to  be  known  ; and  endeavoured  therefore  to  give  her  own 
4 views  currency,  no  less  than  to  search-out  our  way  of  thought. 

4 Neither  could  she  rest  satisfied  even  here  : she  must  also  work 
4 upon  the  senses,  upon  the  feelings,  the  spirit ; must  strive  to 
4 awaken  a certain  activity  or  vivacity,  with  the  want  of  which  she 
4 reproached  us. 

4 Having  no  notion  of  what  Duty  means,  and  to  what  a silent, 

1 See  above,  under  date  the  4th  of  January. 

8 


114 


APPENDIX. 


‘ collected  postui’e  he  that  undertakes  it  must  restrict  himself,  she 
‘ was  evermore  for  striking  in,  for  instantaneously  producing  an 
* effect.  In  society  there  must  be  constant  talking  and  discours- 
‘ ing. 

‘ The  Weimar  people  are  doubtless  capable  of  some  enthusiasm, 
‘ perhaps  occasionally  of  a false  enthusiasm  ; but  no  French  up- 
‘ blazing  was  to  be  looked  for  from  them  ; least  of  all  at  a time 
‘ when  the  French  political  preponderance  threatened  all  Europe, 
‘ and  Galm-thinking  men  f presaw  the  inevitable  mischief  which, 
next  year,  was  to  lead  us  to  the  verge  of  destruction. 

‘ In  the  way  of  public  reading  also,  and  reciting,  did  this  lady 
‘ strive  for  lam-els.  I excused  myself  from  an  evening  party  when 
‘ she  exhibited  Phedre  in  this  fashion,1  and  where  the  moderate 
‘ German  plaudits  nowise  contented  her. 

‘ To  philosophise  in  society,  means  to  talk  with  vivacity  about 
‘ insoluble  problems.  This  was  her  peculiar  pleasure  and  passion. 
‘ Naturally  too  she  was  wont  to  cany  it,  in  such  speaking  and 
‘ counter-speaking,  up  to  those  concerns  of  thought  and  sentiment 
‘ which  properly  should  not  be  spoken  of  except  between  God  and 
‘ the  individual.  Here,  moreover,  as  woman  and  Frenchwoman, 
‘ she  had  the  habit  of  sticking  fast  on  main  positions,  and,  as  it 
‘ were, 'not  hearing  rightly  what  the  other  said. 

1 By  all  these  things  the  evil  genius  was  awakened  in  me,  so 
‘ that  I would  treat  whatever  was  advanced  no  otherwise  than  dia- 
‘ lectically  and  problematically  and  often,  by  stiff-necked  contradie- 
‘ tions,  brought  her  to  despair ; wherein,  truly,  she  for  the  first 
‘ time  grew  rightly  amiable,  and  in  the  most  brilliant  manner  ex- 
‘ hibited  her  talent  of  thinking  and  replying. 

‘ More  than  once  I had  regular  dialogues  with  her,  ourselves 
‘ two  ; in  which  likewise,  however,  she  was  burdensome,  according 
‘ to  her  fashion  ; never  granting,  on  the  most  important  topics,  a 
‘ moment  of  reflection,  but  passionately  demanding  that  you  should 
‘ despatch  the  deepest  concerns,  the  weightiest  occurrences,  as 
‘ lightly  as  if  it  were  a game  at  shuttlecock. 

‘ One  little  instance,  instead  of  many,  may  find  place  here  : 

‘ She  stepped  in,  one  evening  before  court- time,  and  said,  as  if 
‘ for  salutation,  with  warm  vehemence,  “I  have  important  news  to 
‘ tell  you  : Moreau  is  arrested,  with  some  others,  and  accused  of 
‘ treason  against  the  Tyrant.”  I had  long,  as  every  one  had,  taken 
‘ interest  in  the  person  of  this  noble  individual,  and  followed  his 
‘ actions  and  attempts.  I now  silently  called  back  the  past ; in 

'■  See  above  : date,  26th  January. 


APPENDIX. 


115 


‘ order,  as  my  way  is,  to  try  the  present  thereby,  and  deduce,  or  at 
‘ least  forecast,  the  future.  The  lady  changed  the  conversation, 
‘ leading  it,  as  usual,  on  manifold  indifferent  things  ; and  as  I, 
‘ persisting  in  my  reverie,  did  not  forthwith  answer  her  with  due 
‘ liveliness,  she  again  reproached  me,  as  she  had  often  done,  that 
‘ this  evening  too,  according  to  custom,  I was  in  the  dumps  ( mans - 
‘ scale),  and  no  cheerful  talk  to  be  had  with  me.  I felt  seriously 
‘ angry  ; declared  that  she  was  capable  of  no  true  sympathy,  that 
‘ she  dashed  in  without  note  of  warning,  felled  you  with  a club, — 

* and  next  minute  you  must  begin  piping  tunes  for  her,  and  jig 
‘ from  subject  to  subject. 

‘ Such  speeches  were  quite  according  to  her  heart ; she  wished 
‘ to  excite  passion,  no  matter  what.  In  order  to  appease  me,  she 
‘ now  went  over  all  the  circumstances  of  the  above  sorrowful  mis- 
1 chance,  and  evinced  therein  great  penetration  into  characters,  and 

* acquaintance  with  the  posture  of  affairs. 

‘ Another  little  story  will  prove  likewise  how  gaily  and  lightly 
‘ you  might  live  with  her,  so  you  took  it  her  own  way  : 

‘ At  a numerous  supper-party  with  the  Duchess  Amelia,  I was 
‘ sitting  far  off  her,  and  chanced  this  time  also  to  be  taciturn  and 
‘ rather  meditative.  My  neighbours  reproved  me  for  it,  and  there 
‘ rose  a little  movement,  the  cause  of  which  at  length  reached  up 
‘ to  the  higher  personages.  Madame  de  Stael  heard  the  accusa- 

* tion  of  my  silence  ; expressed  herself  regarding  it  in  the  usual 
‘ terms,  and  added,  “ On  the  whole,  I never  like  Goethe  till  he  has 
‘ had  a bottle  of  champagne.”  I said  half-aloud,  so  that  those 
‘ next  me  could  hear,  “ I suppose  then,  we  have  often  got  a little 
‘ elevated  together.”  A moderate  laugh  ensued.  She  wanted  to 
‘ know  the  cause.  No  one  could,  or  would,  give  a French  version 
‘ of  my  words  in  their  proper  sense  ; till  at  last  Benjamin  Constant, 

‘ one  of  those  near  me,  undertook,  as  she  continued  asking  and 
‘ importuning,  to  satisfy  her  by  some  euphonistic  phrase,  and  so 
‘ terminate  the  business. 

‘ But  whatever,  on  reflection,  one  may  think  or  say  of  these  pro- 
‘ ceedings,  it  is  ever  to  be  acknowledged  that,  in  their  results,  they 
‘ have  been  of  great  importance  and  influence.  That  Work  on 
‘ Germany,  which  owed  its  origin  to  such  social  conversations, 
‘ must  be  looked  on  as  a mighty  implement,  whereby,  in  the  Ohi- 
‘ nese  Wall  of  antiquated  prejudices  which  divided  us  from  France, 

‘ a broad  gap  was  broken  ; so  that  across  the  Bhine,  and,  in  con- 
1 sequence  of  this,  across  the  Channel,  our  neighbours  at  last  took 
‘ closer  knowledge  of  us  ; and  now  the  whole  remote  West  is  open 


116 


APPENDIX. 


‘ to  our  influences.  Let  us  bless  those  annoyances,  therefore,  and 
‘ that  conflict  of  national  peculiarities,  which  at  the  time  seemed 
* unseasonable,  and  nowise  promised  us  furtherance.’ 


in. 

THE  TALE.1 

BY  GOETHE. 

[1832.] 

That  Goethe,  many  years  ago,  wrote  a piece  named  Das  Malirchen 
(The  Tale)  ; which  the  admiring  critics  of  Germany  contrived  to 
criticise  by  a stroke  of  the  pen  ; declaring  that  it  was  indeed  The 
Tale,  and  worthy  to  be  called  the  Tale  of  Tales  ( das  Mahrchen  alter 
Malirchen),- — may  appear  certain  to  most  English  readers,  for  they 
have  repeatedly  seen  as  much  in  print.  To  some  English  reader's 
it  may  appear  certain,  furthermore,  that  they  personally  know  this 
Tales  of  Tales ; and  can  even  pronounce  it  to  deserve  no  such 
epithet,  and  the  admiring  critics  of  Germany  to  be  little  other  than 
blockheads. 

English  readers  ! the  first  certainty  is  altogether  indubitable  ; 
the  second  certainty  is  not  worth  a rush. 

That  same  Malirchen  alter  Malirchen  you  may  see  with  your  own 
eyes,  at  this  hour,  in  the  Fifteenth  Volume  of  Goethe's  Werke;  and 
seeing  is  believing.  On  the  other  hand,  that  English  ‘ Tale  of 
Tales,’  put  forth  some  years  ago  as  the  Translation  thereof,  by  an 
individual  connected  with  the  Periodical  Press  of  London  (his 
Periodical  vehicle,  if  we  remember  broke  down  soon  after,  and 
was  rebuilt,  and  still  runs,  under  the  name  of  Court  Journal), — 
was  a Translation,  miserable  enough,  of  a quite  different  thing ; a 
thing,  not  a Malirchen  (Fabulous  Tale)  at  all,  but  an  Erzaldung  or 
common  fictitious  Narrative  ; having  no  manner  of  relation  to  the 
real  piece  (beyond  standing  in  the  same  Volume) ; not  so  much  as 
Milton’s  Tetrachordon  of  Divorce  has  to  his  Allegro  and  Penseroso! 
In  this  way  do  individuals  connected  with  the  Periodical  Press  of 
London  play  their  part,  and  commodiously  befool  thee,  O Public 
of  English  readers,  and  can  serve  thee  with  a mass  of  roasted  grass, 
and  name  it  stewed  venison  ; and  will  continue  to  do  so,  till  thou — 
open  thy  eyes,  and  from  a blind  monster  become  a seeing  one. 


i Fraser’s  Magazine,  No.  33. 


APPENDIX. 


117 


This  mistake  we  did  not  publicly  note  at  the  time  of  its  occur- 
rence ; for  two  good  reasons  : first,  that  while  mistakes  are  in- 
creasing, like  Population,  at  the  rate  of  Twelve  Hundred  a-dav, 
the  benefit  of  seizing  one,  and  throttling  it,  would  be  perfectly 
inconsiderable  : second,  that  we  were  not  then  in  existence.  The 
highly  composite,  astonishing  Entity,  which  here  as  ‘ O.  Y.’  ad- 
dresses mankind  for  a season,  still  slumbered  (his  elements  scat- 
tered over  Infinitude,  and  working  under  other  shapes)  in  the 
womb  of  Nothing  ! Meditate  on  us  a little,  O Reader  : if  thou 
wilt  consider  who  and  what  we  are  ; what  Powers,  of  Cash,  Esuri- 
ence,  Intelligence,  Stupidity  and  Mystery  created  us,  and  what 
work  we  do  and  will  do,  there  shall  be  no  end  to  thy  amazement. 

This  mistake,  however,  we  do  now  note ; induced  thereto  by 
occasion.  By  the  fact,  namely,  that  a genuine  English  Transla- 
tion of  that  MdhrcTten  has  been  handed-in  to  us  for  judgment ; and 
now  (such  judgment  haring  proved  merciful)  comes  out  from  us 
in  the  way  of  publication.  Of  the  Translation  we  cannot  say 
much  ; by  the  colour  of  the  paper,  it  may  be  some  seven  years  old, 
and  have  lain  peiWaps  in  smoky  repositories  : it  is  not  a good 
Translation  ; yet  also  not  wholly  bad  ; faithful  to  the  original  (as 
we  can  vouch,  after  strict  trial)' ; conveys  the  real  meaning,  though 
with  an  effort : here  and  there  our  pen  has  striven  to  help  it,  but 
could  not  do  much.  The  poor  Translator,  who  signs  himself  ‘ D. 
T.,’  and  affects  to  carry  matters  with  a high  hand,  though,  as  we 
have  ground  to  surmise,  he  is  probably  in  straits  for  the  necessaries 
of  life, — has,  at  a more  recent  date,  appended  numerous  Notes; 
wherein  he  will,  convince  himself  that  more  meaning  lies  in  his 
Malirchen  1 than  in  all  the  Literature  of  our  century  : ’ some  of  these 
we  have  retained,  now  and  then  with  an  explanatory  or  exculpatory 
word  of  our  own  ; the  most  we  have  cut  away,  as  superfluous  and 
even  absurd.  Superfluous  and  even  absurd,  we  say : D.  T.  can 
take  this  of  us  as  he  likes  ; we  know  him,  and  what  is  in  him,  and 
what  is  not  in  him  ; believe  that  he  will  prove  reasonable  ; can  do 
either  way.  At  all  events,  let  one  of  the  notablest  Performances 
produced  for  the  last  thousand  years,  be  now,  through  his  organs 
(since  no  other,  in  this  elapsed  half-century,  have  offered  them- 
selves), set  before  an  undiscerning  public. 

Me  too  will  premise  our  conviction  that  this  Malirchen.  presents 
a phantasmagoric  Adumbration,  pregnant  with  deepest  signifi- 
cance ; though  nowise  that  D.  T.  has  so  accurately  evolved  the 
same.  Listen  notwithstanding  to  a remark  or  two,  extracted  from 
his  immeasurable  Proem  : 


113 


APPENDIX. 


‘ Dull  men  of  this  country,’  says  he,  ‘ who  pretend  to  admire 

* Goethe,  smile.d  on  me  when  I first  asked  the  meaning  of  this 
‘ Tale.  1 1 Meaning  ! ” answered  they  : “ it  is  a wild  arabesque, 
‘ without  meaning  or  purpose  at  all,  except  to  dash  together, 
! copiously  enough,  confused  hues  of  Imagination,  and  see  what 
‘ will  come  of  them.”  Such  is  still  the  persuasion  of  several  heads ; 
‘ which  nevertheless  would  perhaps  grudge  to  be  considered  wig- 
1 blocks.’ — Not  impossible  : the  first  Sin  in  our  Universe  was  Luci- 
fer’s, that  of  Self-conceit.  But  hear  again  ; what  is  more  to  the 
point : 

. ‘ The  difficulties  of  interpretation  are  exceedingly  enhanced  by 
‘ one  circumstance,  not  unusual  in  other  such  writings  of  Goethe’s  ; 
‘ namely,  that  this  is  no  Allegory  ; which,  as  in  the  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
‘ ress,  you  have  only  once  for  all  to  find  the  key  of,  and  so  go  on 
‘ unlocking : it  is  a Phantasmagory,  rather  ; wherein  things  the 
‘ most  heterogeneous  are,  with  homogeneity  of  figure,  emblemed 
‘ forth ; w'hich  would  require  not  one  key  to  unlock  it,  but,  at 
‘ different  stages  of  the  business,  a dozen  successive  keys.  Here 
‘ you  have  Epochs  of  Time  shadowed  forth,  there  Qualities  of  the 
‘ Human  Soul ; now  it  is  Institutions,  Historical  Events,  now  Doc- 
‘ trines,  Philosophic  Truths  : thus  are  all  manner  of  “ entities  and 
‘ quiddities  and  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies  ” set  flying ; you  have  the 
‘ whole  Four  Elements  cliaotico-creatively  jumbled  together,  and 
‘ spirits  enough  embodying  themselves,  and  roguishly  peeling 
‘through,  in  the  confused  wild- working  mass ! * * * 

1 So  much,  however,  I will  stake  my  whole  money-capital  and 
‘ literary  character  upon  : that  here  is  a wonderful  Emblem  of  Uxi- 

* VEBSAL  History  set  forth ; more  especially  a wonderful  Emblem  of 
‘this  our  wonderful  and  woful  “Age  of  Transition ; ” what  men 
‘ have  been  and  done,  what'  they  are  to  be  and 'do,  is,  in  this  Tale 

* of  Tales,  poetico-prophetically  typified,  in  such  a style  of  grand- 
‘ eur  and  celestial  brilliancy  and  life,  as  the  Western  Imagination 
‘ has  not  elsewhere  reached ; as  only  the  Oriental  Imagination,  and 
‘ in  the  primeval  ages,  was  wont  to  attempt.’— Here  surely  is  good 
wine,  with  a big  bush  ! Study  the  Tale  of  Tales,  O reader : even 
in  the  bald  version  of  D.  T.,  there  will  be  meaning  found.  He 
continues  in  this  triumphant  style  : 

‘ Can  any  mortal  head  (not  a wigblock)  doubt  that  the  Giant  of 
‘this  poem  means  Superstition ? That  the  Ferryman  has  some- 
‘ thing  to  do  with  the  Priesthood  ; his  Hut  with  the  Church  ? 

‘ Again,  might  it  not  be  presumed  that  the  River  were  Tike  : and 
‘that  it  flowed  (as  Time  does)  between  two  worlds?  Call  the 


APPENDIX. 


119 


1 world,  or  country  on  this  side,  where  the  fair  Lily  dwells,  the 
‘ world  of  Supebnatubalism  ; the  country  on  that  side,  Naturalism, 
‘ the  working  week-day  world  where  we  all  dwell  and  toil  : whoso- 
ever or  whatsoever  introduces  itself,  and  appears,  in  the  firm- 
‘ earth  of  human  business,  or  as  we  well  say,  comes  into  Existence, 
‘ must  proceed  from  Lily’s  supernatural  country  ; whatsoever  of  a 
‘ material  sort  deceases  and  disappears  might  be  expected  to  go 
‘ thither.  Let  the  reader  consider  this,  and  note  what  comes 
of  it. 

‘ To  get  a free  solid  communication  established  over  this  same 
‘ wondrous  River  of  Time,  so  that  the  Natural  and  Supernatural 
‘ may  stand  in  friendliest  neighbourhood  and  union,  forms  the 
‘ grand  action  of  this  Phantasmagoric  Poem  : is  not  such  also,  let 
* me  ask  thee,  the  grand  action  and  summary  of  Universal  History  ; 
‘ the  one  problem  of  Human  Culture ; the  thing  which  Mankind 
‘ (once  the  three  daily  meals  of  victual  were  moderately  secured) 
‘ has  ever  striven  after,  and  must  ever  strive  after  ? — Alas  ! we  ob- 
‘ serve  very  soon,  matters  stand  on  a most  distressful  footing,  in 
‘ this  of  Natural  and  Supernatural : there  are  three  conveyances 
‘ across,  and  all  bad,  all  incidental,  temporary,  uncertain  : the 
‘ worst  of  the  three,  one  would  think,  and  the  worst  conceivable, 
‘ were  the  Giant’s  Shadow,  at  sunrise  and  sunset ; the  best  that 
‘ Snake-bridge  at  noon,  yet  still  only  a bad-best.  Consider  again 
‘ our  trustless,  rotten,  revolutionary  ‘ ‘ age  of  transition,”  and  see 
‘ whether  this  too  does  not  fit  it ! 

‘If  you  ask  next,  Who  these  other  strange  characters  are,  the 
1 Snake,  the  Will-o’-wisps,  the  Man  with  the  Lamp  ? I will  answer, 
‘ in  general  and  afar  off,  that  Light  must  signify  human  Insight, 
‘ Cultivation,  in  one  sort  or  other.  As  for  the  Snake,  I know  not 
‘ well  what  name  to  call  it  by  ; nay  perhaps,  in  our  scanty  vocab- 
‘ ularies,  there  is  no  name  for  it,  though  that  does  not  hinder 
‘ its  being  a thing,  genuine  enough.  Meditation ; Intellectual 
‘ Research  ; Understanding  ; in  the  most  - general  acceptation, 
‘ Thought : all  these  come  near  designating  it ; none  actually 
‘ designates  it.  Were  I bound,  under  legal  penalties,  to  give  the 
‘ creature  a name,  I should  say,  Thought  rather  than  another. 

‘ But  what  if  our  Snake,  and  so  much  else  that  works  here  be- 
‘ side  it,  were  neither  a quality , nor  a reality , nor  a state,  nor  an 
‘ action,  in  any  kind  ; none  of  these  things  purely  and  alone,  but 
‘ something  intermediate  and  partaking  of  .them  all ! In  which 
‘ case,  to  name  it,  in  vulgar  speech,  were  a still  more  frantic  at- 
‘ tempt : it  is  unnameable  in  speech  ; and  remains  only  the  alle- 


120 


APPENDIX. 


‘ gorical  Figure  known  in  this  Tale  by  the  name  of  Snake,  and  more 
‘ or  less  resembling  and  skadowing-forth  somewhafftkat  speech  has 
‘named,  or  might  name.  It  is  this  heterogeneity  of  nature,  pitck- 
‘ ing  your  solidest  Predicables  keels-over-kead,  throwing  you  kalf- 
1 a-dozen  Categories  into  the  melting-pot  at  once, — that  so  un- 
‘ speakably  bewilders  a Commentator,  and  for  moments  is  nigh  re- 
‘ ducing  him  to  delirium  saltans. 

‘ The  Will-o’-wisps,  that  larigk  and  jig,  and  compliment  the  la- 
‘ dies,  and  eat  gold  and  shake  it  from  them,  I for  my  own  share 
; take  the  liberty  of  viewing  as  some  shadow  of  Elegant  Culture, 

‘ or  modern  Fine  Literature  ; which  by-and-by  became  so  scepti- 
‘ cal-destructive  ; and  did,  as  French  Philosophy,  eat  Gold  (or  Wis- 
‘ dom)  enough,  and  shake  it  out  again.  In  which  sense,  their 
‘ coming  (into  Existence)  by  the  old  Ferryman’s  (by  the  Priest- 
‘ hood’s)  assistance,  and  almost  oversetting  his  boat,  and  then 
‘laughing  at  him,  and  trying  to  skip-off  from  him,  yet  being 
‘ obliged  to  stop  till  they  had  satisfied  him  : all  this,  to  the  dis- 
‘ cerning  eye,  has  its  significance. 

‘ As  to  the  Man  with  the  Lamp,  in  him  and  his  gold  -giving, 
‘jewel-forming,  and  otherwise  so  miraculous  Light,  which  “ casts 
‘no  shadow,”  and  “ cannot  illuminate  what  is  wholly  otherwise  in 
‘ darkness,” — I see  what  you  might  name  the  celestial  Reason  of 
‘Man  (Reason  as  contrasted  with  Understanding,  and  superordi- 
‘ nated  to  it),  the  purest  essence  of  his  seeing  Faculty ; which  inani- 
‘ fests  itself  as  the  Spirit  of  Poetry,  of  Prophecy,  or  whatever  else 
‘ of  highest  in  the  intellectual  sort  man’s  mind  can  do.  We  behold 
‘ this  respectable,  venerable  Lamp-bearer  everywhere  present  in 
‘ time  of  need ; directing,  accomplishing,  working,  wonder-work- 
‘ ing,  finally  victorious  as,  in  strict  reality,  it  is  ever  (if  we  will 
‘ study  it)  the  Poetic  Vision  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  other 
‘ Knowledge  or  Action  ; and  is  the  source  and  creative  fountain  of 
‘ whatsoever  mortals  ken  or  can,  and  mystically  and  miraculously 
‘ guides  them  forward  whither  they  are  to  go.  Be  the  Man  with 
‘ the  Lamp,  then,  named  Reason  ; mankind’s  noblest  inspired  In- 
‘ sight  and  Light ; whereof  all  the  other  lights  are  but  effluences, 

‘ and  more  or  less  discoloured  emanations. 

‘ His  Wife,  poor  old  woman,  we  shall  call  Practical  Endeavour  ; 
‘ which  as  married  to  Reason,  to  spiritual  Vision  and  Belief, 
‘ first  makes-up  man’s  being  here  below.  Unhappily  the  ancient 
‘ couple,  we  find,  are  but  in  a decayed  condition  : the  better  em- 
‘ blems  are  they  of  Reason  and  Endeavour  in  this  our  “transition- 
‘ ary  age  ! ” The  Man  presents  himself  in  the  garb  of  a peasant, 


APPENDIX.  ■ 


121 


‘ the  Woman  has  grown  olcl,  garrulous,  querulous  ; both  live  never- 
theless in  their  “ancient  cottage,”  better  or  worse,  the  roof-tree 
‘ of  which  still  holds  together  over  them.  And  then  those  mis- 
chievous  Will-o’-wisps,  who  pay  the  old  lady  such  court,  and  eat 
4 all  the  old  gold  (all  that  was  wise  and  beautiful  and  desirable) 
‘ off  her  walls ; and  show  the  old  stones,  quite  ugly  and  bare,  as 

* they  had  not  been  for  ages ! Besides  they  have  killed  poor 
‘Mops,  the  plaything,  and  joy  and  fondling  of  the  house  ; — as  has 
‘ not  that  same  Elegant  Culture,  or  French  Philosophy  done, 
‘ wheresoever  it  has  arrived  ? Mark,  notwithstanding,  how  the 
‘Man  with  the  Lamp  puts  it  all  right  again,  reconciles  everything, 
‘ and  makes  the  finest  business  out  of  what  seemed  the  worst. 

‘ With  regard  to  the  Four  Kings,  ancl  the  Temple  which  lies 
‘fashioned  underground,  please  to  consider  all  this  as  the  Future 
‘ lying  prepared  and  certain  under  the  Present : you  observe,  not 
‘ only  inspired  Reason  (or  the  Man  with  the  Lamp),  but  scientific 
‘ Thought  (or  the  Snake),  can  discern  it  lying  there  : nevertheless 

• much  work  must  be  done,  innumerable  difficulties  fronted  and 
‘ conquered,  before  it  can  rise  out  of  the  depths  (of  the  Future), 
‘ and  realise  itself  as  the  actual  worshipping-place  of  man,  and 
‘ “ the  most  frequented  Temple  in  the  whole  Earth.” 

‘ As  for  the  fair  Lily  and  her  ambulatory  necessitous  Prince, 
‘ these  are  objects  that  I shall  admit  myself  incapable  of  naming  : 
‘ yet  nowise  admit  myself  incapable  of  attaching  meaning  to.  Con- 
‘ sider  them  as  the  two  disjointed  Halves  of  this  singular  Dualistic 
‘ Being  of  ours ; a Being,  I must  say,  the  most  utterly  Dualistic  ; 
‘fashioned,  from  the  very  heart  of  it,  out  of  Positive  and  Negative 
‘ (what  we  happily  call  Light  and  Darkness,  Necessity  and  Free- 
‘ will,  Good  and  Evil,  and  the  like)  ; everywhere  out  of  two  mor- 
‘ tally  opposed  things,  which  yet  must  be  united  in  vital  love,  if 
‘there  is  to  be  any  Life; — a Being,  I repeat,  Dualistic  beyond  ex- 
‘ pressing ; which  will  split  in  two,  strike  it  in  any  direction,  on 
‘ any  of  its  six  sides  ; and  does  of  itself  split  in  two  (into  Contradic- 
‘ tion),  every  hour  of  the  day, — were  not  Life  perpetually  there, 

‘ perpetually  knitting  it  together  again  ! But  as  to  that  cutting- 
‘ up,  and  parcelling,  and  labelling  of  the  indivisible  Human  Soul 
‘ into  what  are  called  “ Faculties,”  it  is  a thing  I have  from  of  old 
‘ eschewed,  and  even  hated.  A thing  which  you  must  sometimes 
‘ do  (or  you  cannot  speak)  ; yet  which  is  never  done  without  Error 
‘ hovering  near  you  ; for  most  part,  without  her  pouncing  on  you, 

‘ and  quite  blindfolding  you. 

‘ Let  not  us,  therefore,  in  looking  at  Lily  and  her  Prince  be 


122 


APPENDIX. 


‘ tempted  to  that  practice  : wiry  should  we  try  to  name  them  at  all  ? 
‘ Enough,  if  we  do  feel  that  man’s  whole  Being  is  riven  asunder 
‘ every  way  (in  this  “ transitionary  age  ”),  and  yawning  in  hostile, 
‘ irreconcilable  contradiction  with  itself  : what  good  were  it  to 
‘ know  farther  in  what  direction  the  rift  (as  our  Poet  here  pleased 
‘ to  represent  it)  had  taken  effect  ? Fancy,  however,  that  these 
‘ two  Halves  of  Man’s  Soul  and  Being  are  separated,  in  pain  and 
‘ enchanted  obstruction,  from  one  another.  The  better,  fairer  Half 
‘ sits  in  the  Supernatural  country,  deadening  and  killing ; alas, 
‘ not  permitted  to  come  across  into  the  Natural  visible  country, 
1 and  there  make  all  blessed  and  alive ! The  rugged  stronger  Half, 
‘ in  such  separation,  is  quite  lamed  and  paralytic ; wretched,  for- 
* lorn,  in  a state  of  death-life,  must  he  wander  to  and  fro  over  the 
‘ Biver  of  Time  ; all  that  is  dear  and  essential  to  him,  imprisoned 
‘ there  ; which  if  he  look  at,  he  grows  still  weaker,  which  if  he 
‘ touch,  he  dies.  Poor  Prince  ! And  let  the  judicious  reader  who 
‘ has  read  the  Era  he  lives  in,  or  even  spelt  the  alphabet  thereof, 
‘ say  whether,  with  the  paralytic-lamed  Activity  of  man  (hampered 
‘ and  hamstrung  in  a “ transitionary  age  ” of  Scepticism,  Method- 
‘ ism  ; atheistic  Sarcasm,  hysteric  Orgasm  ; brazen-faced  Delusion, 
‘ Puffery,  Hypocrisy,  Stupidity,  and  the  whole  Bill  and  nothing 
‘ but  the  Bill),  it  is  not  even  so  ? Must  not  poor  man’s  Activity 
‘ (like  this  poor  Prince)  wander  from  Natural  to  Supernatural,  and 
‘ back  again,  disconsolate  enough  ; unable  to  do  anything,  except 
‘ merely  wring  its  hands,  and,  whimpering  and  blubbering,  lament- 
‘ ably  inquire  : What  shall  I do  ? 

‘ But  Courage ! Courage  ! The  Temple  is  built  (though  under- 
‘ ground) ; the  Bridge  shall  arch  itself,  the  divided  Two  shall 
‘ clasp  each  other  as  flames  do,  rushing  into  one;  and  all  that  ends 
‘ well  shall  be  well ! Mark  only  how,  in  this  inimitable  Poem, 

‘ worthy  of  an  Olympic  crown,  or  prize  of  the  Literary  Society,  it 
1 is  represented  as  proceeding  i ’ 

So  far  D.  T.  ; a commentator  who  at  least  does  not  want  confi- 
dence in  himself  : whom  we  shall  only  caution  not  to  be  too  con- 
fident ; to  remember  always  that,  as  he  once  says,  1 P 1 i a n t as magory 
is  not  Allegory ; ’ that  much  exists,  under  our  very  noses,  which 
has  no  ‘name,’  and  can  get  none;  that  the  ‘Biver  of  Time’  and 
so  forth  may  be  one  thing,  or  more  than  one,  or  none ; that,  in 
short,  there  is  risk  of  the  too  valiant  D.  T.’s  bamboozling  himself 
ill  this  matter  ; being  led  from  puddle  to  pool ; and  so  left  stand- 
ing at  last,  like  a foolish  mystified  nose-of-wax,  wondering  where 
the  devil  he  is. 


APPENDIX. 


123 


To  the  simpler  sort  of  readers  we  shall  also  extend  an  advice  ; 
or  be  it  rather,  proffer  a petition.  It  is  to  fancy  themselves,  for 
the  time  being,  delivered  altogether  from  D.  T.’s  company  ; and 
to  read  this  Mdhrchen,  as  if  it  were  there  only  for  its  own  sake, 
and  those  tag-rag-  Notes  of  his  were  so  much  blank  paper.  Let  the 
simpler  sort  of  readers  say  now  how  they  like  it ! If  unhappily, 
on  looking  back,  some  spasm  of  ‘ the  malady  of  thought  ’ begin 
afflicting  them,  let  such  Notes  be  then  inquired  of,  but  not  till 
then,  and  then  also  with  distrust.  Pin  thy  faith  to  no  man’s  sleeve  ; 
hast  thou  not  two  eyes  of  thy  own  ? 

The  Commentator  himself  cannot,’  it  is  to  be  hoped,  imagine 
that  he  . has  exhausted  the  matter.  To  decipher  and  represent 
the  genesis  of  this  extraordinary  Production,  and  what  was  the 
Author’s  state  of  mind  in  producing  it ; to  see,  with  dim  common 
eyes,  what  the  great  Goethe,  with  inspired  poetic  eyes,  then  sawT ; 
and  paint  to  oneself  the  thick-coming  shapes  and  many-coloured 
splendours  of  his  ‘ Prospero’s  Grotto,’  at  that  hour : this  were 
what  we  could  call  complete  criticism  and  commentary  : what  D.  T. 
is  far  from  having  done,  and  ought  to  fall  on  his  face,  and  confess 
that  he  can  never  do. 

We  shall  conclude  with  remarking  two  things.  First,  that  D.  T. 
does  not  appear  to  have  set  eye  on  any  of  those  German  Commen- 
taries on  this  Tale  of  Tales ; or  even  to  have  heard,  credently,  that 
such  exist : an  omission,  in  a professed  Translator,  which  he  him- 
self may  answer  for.  Secondly,  that  with  all  his  boundless  pre- 
luding, he  has  forgotten  to  insert  the  Author’s  own  prelude  ; the 
passage,  namely,  by  which  this  Mdhrchen  is  specially  ushered  in, 
and  the  key-note  of  it  struck  by  the  Composer  himself,  and  the 
tone  of  the  whole  prescribed  ! This  latter  altogether  glaring 
omission  we  now  charitably  supply ; and  then  let  P.  T.,  and  his 
illustrious  Original,  and  the  Readers  of  this  Magazine  take  it 
among  them.  Turn  to  the  latter  part  of  the  Deutschen  Ausgeican- 
clerten  (page  208,  Volume  xv.  of  the  last  edition  of  Goethe's  Werke) ; 
it  is  written  there,  as  we  render  it : 

‘“The  Imagination,”  said  Karl,  “is  a fine  faculty;  yet  I like 
‘ not  when  she  works  on  what  has  actually  happened  : the  airy 
‘ forms  she  creates  are  welcome  as  things  of  their  own  kind  ; but 
‘ uniting  with  Truth  she  produces  oftenest  nothing  but  monsters  ; 

‘ and  seems  to  me,  in  such  cases,  to  fly  into  direct  variance  with 
‘ Reason  and  Common  Sense.  She  ought,  you  might  say,  to  hang 
‘ upon  no  object,  to  force  no  object  on  us  ; she  must,  if  she  is  to 
‘ produce  Works  of  Art,  play  like  a sort  of  music  upon  us  ; move 


124 


APPENDIX. 


‘ us  within  ourselves,  and  this  in  such  a way  that  we  forget  there 
‘ is  anything  without  us  producing  the  movement.” 

‘ “Proceed  no  farther,”  said  the  old  man,  “with  your  concli- 
‘ tionings ! To  enjoy  a product  of  Imagination  this  also  is  a eon- 
‘ dition,  that  we  enjoy  it  unconditionally  ; for  Imagination  herself 
‘ cannot  condition  and  bargain ; she  must  ivait  what  shall  be  given 
‘ her.  She  forms  no  plans,  prescribes  for  herself  no  path ; but  is 
‘ borne  and  guided  by  her  own  pinions  ; and  hovering  hither  and 
‘ thither,  marks  out  the  strangest  courses ; which  in  their  direc- 
‘ tion  are  ever  altering.  Let  me  but,  on  my  evening  walk,  call  up 
‘ again  to  life  within  me,  some  wrondrous  figures  I was  wont  to 
‘ play  with  in  earlier  years.  This  night  I promise  you  a Tale, 
‘ which  shall  remind  you  of  Nothing  and  of  All.”  ’ 

And  now  for  it.  O.  Y. 


In  his  little  Hut,  by  the  great  Eiver,  which  a heavy  rain  had 
swoln  to  overflowing,  lay  the  ancient  Ferryman,  asleep,  wearied  by 
the  toil  of  the  day.  In  the  middle  of  the  night, 1 loud  voices  awoke 
him  ; he  heard  that  it  was  travellers  wishing  to  be  carried  over. 

Stepping  out,  he  saw  two  large  Will-o’-wisps,  hovering  to  and 
fro  on  his  boat,  which  lay  moored  : they  said,  they  were  in  violent 
haste,  and  should  have  been  already  on  the  other  side.  The  old 
Ferryman  made  no  loitering ; pushed  off,  and  steered  with  his 
usual  skill  obliquely  through  the  stream  ; while  the  two  strangers 
whiffled  and  hissed  together,  in  an  unknown  very  rapid  tongue, 
and  every  now  and  then  broke  out  in  loud  laughter,  hopping  about, 
at  one  time  on  the  gunwale  and  the  seats,  at  another  on  the  bottom 
of  the  boat. 

“ The  boat  is  heeling  ! ” cried  the  old  man  ; “ if  you  don’t  be 
quiet,  it  will  overset ; be  seated,  gentlemen  of  the  wisp  ! ” 

At  this  advice  they  burst  into  a fit  of  laughter,  mocked  the  old 
man,  and  were  more  unquiet  than  ever.  He  bore  their  mischief 
with  patience,  and  soon  reached  the  farther  shore. 

“ Here  is  for  your  labour ! ” cried  the  travellers,  and  as  they 

i In  the  middle  of  the  night  truly ! In  the  middle  of  the  Dark  Ages,  when 
what  with  Mahomedan  Conquests,  what  with  Christian  Crusadings,  Destruc- 
tions of  Constantinople,  Discoveries  of  America,  the  TiME-River  was  indeed 
swoln  to  overflowing ; and  the  Iff  ties  Fatui  (of  Elegant  Culture,  of  Literature,) 
must  needs  feel  in  haste  to  get  over  into  Existence,  being  much  wanted  ; and 
apply  to  the  Priesthood  (respectable  old  Ferryman,  roused  out  of  sleep 
thereby!),  who  willingly  introduced-them,  mischievous  ungrateful  imp.-  as 
they  were. — D.  T. 


APPENDIX. 


125 


shook  themselves,  a heap  of  glittering  gold-pieces  jingled  down 
into  the  wet  boat.  “For  Heaven’s  sake,  what  are  you  about?” 
cried  the  old  man  ; “ you  will  ruin  rhe  forever  ! Had  a single  piece 
of  gold  got  into  the  water,  the  stream,  which  cannot  suffer  gold, 
would  have  risen  in  horrid  waves,  and  swallowed  both  my  skiff 
and  me ; and  who  knows  how  it  might  have  fared  with  you  in  that 
case  ? here,  take  back  your  gold.” 

“ We  can  take  nothing  back,  which  we  have  once  shaken  from 
us,”  said  the  Lights. 

“ Then  you  give  me  the  trouble,”  said  the  old  man,  stooping 
down,  and  gathering  the  pieces  into  his  cap,  ‘ ‘ of  raking  them  to- 
gether, and  carrying  them  ashore,  and  burying  them.” 

The  Lights  had  leaped  from  the  boat,  but  the  old  man  cried : 
“ Stay ; where  is  my  fare  ? ” 

“If  you  take  no  gold,  you  may  work  for  nothing,”  cried  the 
Will-o’-wisps.1 — “ You  must  know  that  I am  only  to  be  paid  with 
fruits  of  the  earth.” — “Fruits  of  the  earth?  we  despise  them,  and 
have  never  tasted  them.” — “And  yet  I cannot  let  you  go,  till 
you  have  promised  that  you  will  deliver  me  three  Cabbages,  three 
Artichokes,  and  three  large  Onions.” 

The  Lights  were  making-off  with  jests  ; but  they  felt  themselves, 
in  some  inexplicable  manner,  fastened  to  the  ground  : it  was  the 
unpleasantest  feeling  they  had  ever  had.  They  engaged  to  pay 
him  his  demands  as  soon  as  possible  : he  let  them  go,  and  pushed 
away.  He  was  gone  a good  distance,  when  they  called  to  him  : 
“ Old  man  ! Holla,  old  man  ! the  main  point  is  forgotten  ! ” 1 He 
was  off,  however,  and  did  not  hear  them.  He  had  fallen  quietly 
down  that  side  of  the  River,  where,  in  a rocky  spot,  "which  the 
water  never  reached,  he  meant  to  bury  the  pernicious  gold.  Here, 
between  two  high  crags,  he  found  a monstrous  chasm  ; shook  the 
metal  into  it,  and  steered  back  to  his  cottage. 

Now,  in  this  chasm  lay  the  fair  green  Snake,  who  was  roused 
from  her  sleep  by  the  gold  coming  chinking  down.2  No  sooner 
did  she  fix  her  eye  on  the  glittering  coins,  than  she  ate  them  all 
up,  with  the  greatest  relish,  on  the  spot ; and  carefully  packed  out 
such  pieces  as  were  scattered  in  the  chinks  of  the  rock. 

Scarcely  had  she  swallowed  them,  when,  with  extreme  delight, 
she  began  to  feel  the  metal  melting  in  her  inwards,  and  spreading 

1 What  could  this  be  ? To  ask  whither  their  next  road  lay  ? It  was  useless 
to  ask  there  : the  respectable  old  Priesthood  ‘ did  not  hear  them.’ — D.  T. 

2 Thought,  Understanding,  roused  from  her  long  sleep  by  the  first  produce 
of  modern  Belles  Lettres  ; which  she  eagerly  devours. — D.  T. 


126 


'APPENDIX. 


all  over  lier  body ; and  soon,  to  her  lively  joy,  she  observed  that 
she  was  grown  transparent  and  luminous.  Long  ago  she  had  been 
told  that  this  was  possible  ; but  now  being  doubtful  whether  such 
a light  could  last,  her  curiosity  and  the  desire  to  be  secure  against 
the  future,  drove  her  from  her  cell,  that  she  might  see  who  it  was 
that  had  shaken-in  this  precious  metal.  She  found  no  one.  The 
more  delightful  was  it  to  admire  her  own  appearance,  and  her 
graceful  brightness,  as  she  crawled  along  through  roots  and 
bushes,  and  spread  out  her  light  among  the  grass.  Every  leaf 
seemed  of  emerald,  every  flower  was  dyed  with  new  glory.  It 
■was  in  vain  that  she  crossed  the  solitary  thickets  ; but  her  hopes 
rose  high,  when,  on  reaching  the  open  country,  she  perceived  from 
afar  a brilliancy  resembling  her  own.  “ Shall  I find  my  like  at 
last,  then?”  cried  she,  and  hastened  to  the  spot.  The  toil  of 
crawling  through  bog  and  reeds  gave  her  little  thought;  for 
though  she  liked  best  to  live  in  dry  grassy  spots  of  the  mountains, 
among  the  clefts  of  rocks,  and  for  most  part  fed  on  spicy  herbs, 
and  slaked  her  thirst  with  mild  dew  and  fresh  spring-water,  yet 
for  the  sake  of  this  dear  gold,  and  in  the  hope  of  this  glorious 
light,  she  would  have  undertaken  anything  you  could  propose  to 
her. 

At  last,  with  much  fatigue,  she  reached  a wet  rushy  spot  in  the 
swamp,  where  our  two  "Will-o'-wisps  were  frisking  to  and  fro. 
She  shoved  herself  along  to  them  ; saluted  them,  was  happy  to 
meet  such  pleasant  gentlemen  related  to  her  family.  The  Lights 
glided  towards  her,  skipped  up  over  her,  and  laughed  in  their 
fashion.  “Lady  Cousin,”  said  they,  “you  are  of  the  horizontal 
hue,  yet  what  of  that  ? It  is  true  we  are  related  only  by  the  look ; 
for  observe  you,”  here  both  the  Flames,  compressing  their  whole 
breadth,  made  themselves  as  high  and  peaked  as  possible,  “how 
prettily  this  taper  length  beseems  us  gentlemen  of  the  vertical  line ! 
Take  it  not  amiss  of  us,  good  Lady  ; what  family  can  boast  of  such 
a thing?  Since  there  ever  was  a Jack-o’-lantern  in  the  world,  no 
one  of  them  has  either  sat  or  lain.” 

The  Snake  felt  exceedingly  rmcomfortable  in  the  company  of 
these  relations ; for  let  her  hold  her  head ^is  high  as  possible,  she 
found-  that  she  must  bend  it  to  the  earth  again,  would  she  stir  from 
the  spot ; 1 and  if  in  the  dark  thicket  she  had  been  extremely  satis- 

1 True  enough  : Thought  cannot  fly  and  dance,  as  your  wildfire  of  Belles 
Lettres  may ; she  proceeds  in  the  systole-diastole,  up-and-down  method ; and 
must  ever  ‘ bend  her  head  to  the  earth  again  ’ (in  the  way  of  Baconian  Experi- 
ment), or  she  will  not  stir  from  the  spot. — D.  T. 


APPENDIX. 


127 


fied  with  her  appearance,  her  splendour  in  the  presence  of  these 
cousins  seemed  to  lessen  every  moment,  nay  she  was  afraid  that  at 
last  it  would  go  out  entirely. 

In  this  embarrassment  she  hastily  asked  : If  the  gentlemen  could 
not  inform  her,  whence  the  glittering  gold  came,  that  had  fallen  a 
short  while  ago  into  the  cleft  of  the  rock ; her  own  opinion  was, 
that  it  had  been  a golden  shower,  and.  had  trickled  down  direct 
from  the  sky.  The  'Will-o’-wisps  laughed,  and  shook  themselves 
and  a multitude  of  gold-pieces  came  clinking  down  about  them. 
The  Snake  pushed  nimbly  forwards  to  eat  the  coin.  “ Much  good 
may  it  do  you,  Mistress,”  said  the  dapper  gentlemen:  “we  can 
help  you  to  a little  more.”  They  shook  themselves  again  several 
times  with  great  quickness,  so  that  the  Snake  could  scarcely  gulp 
the  precious  victuals  fast  enough.  Her  splendour  visibly  began 
increasing ; she  was  really  shining  beautifully,  while  the  Lights 
had  in  the  mean  time  grown  rather  lean  and  short  of  stature,  with- 
out however  in  the  smallest  losing  their  good-humour. 

“ I am  obliged  to  you  forever,”  said  the  Snake,  having  got  her 
wind  again  after  the  repast ; * ‘ ask  of  me  what  you  will ; all  that  I 
can  I will  do.” 

“ Very  good  ! ” cried  the  Lights.  “ Then  tell  us  where  the  fair 
Lily  dwells  ? Lead  us  to  the  fair  Lily’s  palace  and  garden  ; and 
do  not  lose  a moment,  we  are  dying  of  impatience  to  fall  down  at 
her  feet.” 

“ This  service,”  said  the  Snake  with  a deep  sigh,  “ I cannot  now 
do  for  you.  The  fair  Lily  dwells,  alas,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water.” — “Other  side  of  the  water?  And  we  have  come  across  it, 
this  stormy  night ! How  cruel  is  the  River  to  divide  us  ! Would 
it  not  be  possible  to  call  the  old  man  back  ? ” 

“ It  would  be  useless,”  said  the  Snake ; “ for  if  you  found  him 
ready  on  the  bank,  he  would  not  take  you  in  ; he  can  carry  any  one 
to  this  side,  none  to  yonder.” 

“ Here  is  a pretty  kettle  of  fish  ! ” cried  the  Lights  : “are  there 
no  other  means'  of  getting  through  the  water  ? ” — “ There  are  other 
means,  but  not  at  this  moment.  I myself  could  take  you  over,  gen- 
tlemen, but  not  till  noon.” — “ That  is  an  hour  we  do  not  like  to 
travel  in.” — “ Then  you  may  go  across  in  the  evening,  on  the  great 
Giant’s  shadow.” — “How  is  that?” — “The  great  Giant  lives  not 
far  from  this  ; with  his  body  he  has  no  power  ; his  hands  cannot 
lift  a straw,  his  shoulders  could  not  bear  a faggot  of  twigs  ; but 
with  his  shadow  he  has  power  over  much,  nay  all.1  At  sunrise  and 

1 Is  not . ScrERSTXTiON  strongest  when  the  sun  is  low  ? with  body,  power- 
less; with  shadow,  omnipotent '! — D.  T. 


128 


APPENDIX. 


sunset  therefore  lie  is  strongest ; so  at  evening  you  merely  put 
yourself  upon  the  back  of  his  shadow,  the  Giant  walks  softly  to  the 
bank,  and  the  shadow  carries  you  across  the  water.  But  if  you 
please,  about  the  hour  of  noon,  to  be  in  waiting  at  that  comer 
of  the  wood,  where  the  bushes  overhang  the  bank,  I myself  will 
take  you  over  and  present  you  to  the  fair  Lily  : or  on  the  other 
hand,  if  you  dislike  the  noontide,  you  have  just  to  go  at  nightfall 
to  that  bend  of  the  rocks,  and  pay  a visit  to  the  Giant ; he  will 
certainly  receive  you  like  a gentleman.” 

With  a slight  bow,  the  Flames  went  off ; and  the  Snake  at  bot- 
tom was  not  discontented  to  get  rid  of  them ; partly  that  she 
might  enjoy  the  brightness  of  her  own  light,  partly  satisfy  a curi- 
osity with  which,  for  a long  time,  she  had  been  agitated  in  a singu- 
lar way. 

In  the  chasm,  where  she  often  crawled  hither  and  thither,  she 
had  made  a strange  discovery.  For  although  in  creeping  up  and 
down  this  abyss,  she  had  never  had  a ray  of  light,  she  could  well 
enough  discriminate  the  objects  in  it,  by  her  sense  of  touch.  Gen- 
erally she  met  with  nothing  but  irregular  productions  of  Mature  ; 
at  one  time  she  would  wind  between  the  teeth  of  large  crystals,  at 
another  she  would  feel  the  barbs  and  hairs  of  native  silver,  and 
now  and  then  carry  out  with  her  to  the  light  some  straggling 
jewels.1  But  to  her  no  small  wonder,  in  a rock  which  was  closed 
on  every  side,  she  had  come  on  certain  objects  which  betrayed  the 
shaping  hand  of  man.  Smooth  walls  on  which  she  could  not 
climb,  sharp  regular  corners,  well-formed  pillars  ; and  what  seemed 
strangest  of  all,  human  figures  which  she  had  entwined  more  than 
once,  and  which  appeared  to  her  to  be  of  brass,  or  of  the  finest 
polished  marble.  All  these  experiences  she  now  wished  to  com- 
bine by  the  sense  of  sight,  thereby  to  confirm  what  as  yet  she  only 
guessed.  She  believed  she  could  illuminate  the  whole  of  that 
subterranean  vault  by  her  own  light ; and  hoped  to  get  acquainted 
with  these  curious  things  at  once.  She  hastened  back : and  soon 
found,  by  the  usual  way,  the  cleft  by  which  she  used  to  peuetrate 
the  Sanctuary. 

On  reaching  the  place,  she  gazed  around  with  eager  curiosity ; 
and  though  her  shining  could  not  enlighten  every  object  in  the 
rotunda,  yet  those  nearest  her  were  plain  enough.  With  astonish- 

1 Primitive  employments,  and  attainments,  of  Thought,  in  this  dark  den 
whither  it  is  sent  to  dwelt  For  many  long  ages,  it  discerns  ‘ nothing  but  ir- 
regular productions  of  Mature  ; ’ having  indeed  to  pick  material  bed  and  board 
out  of  Nature  and  her  irregular  productions. — D.  T. 


APPENDIX. 


129 


ment  and  reverence  sire  looked  up  into  a glancing  nielie,  where 
the  image  of  an  august  King  stood  formed  of  pure  Gold.  In  size 
the  figure  was  beyond  the  stature  of  man,  but  by  its  shape  it 
seemed  the  likeness  of  a little  rather  than  a tall  person.  His 
handsome  body  was  encircled  with  an  unadorned  mantle  ; and  a 
garland  of  oak  bound  his  hair  together. 

No  sooner  had  the  Snake  beheld  this  reverend  figure,  than  the 
King  began  to  speak,  and  asked:  “Whence  comest  thou?” — 
“From  the  chasms  where  the  gold  dwells,”  said  the  Snake. — 

“ What  is  grander  than  gold  ? ” inquired  the  King. — “ Light,”  re- 
plied the  Snake.' — “What  is  more  refreshing  than  light?”  said  he. 
— “ Speech,”  answered  she. 

During  this  conversation,  she  had  squinted  to  a side,  and  in  the 
nearest  niche  perceived  another  glorious  image.  It  was  a Silver 
King  in  a sitting  posture  ; his  shape  was  long  and  rather  languid  ; 
he  was  covered  with  a decorated  robe  ; crown,  girdle  and  sceptre 
were  adorned  with  precious  stones  : the  cheerfulness  of  pride  was 
in  his  countenance  ; he  seemed  about  to  speak,  when  a vein  which 
ran  dimly-coloured  over  the  marble  wall,  on  a sudden  became 
bright,  and  diffused  a cheerful  light  throughout  the  whole  Tem- 
ple. By  this  brilliancy  the  Snake  perceived  a third  King,  made  of 
Brass,  and  sitting  mighty  in  shape,  leaning  on  his  club,  adorned 
with  a laurel  garland,  and  more  like  a rock  than  a man.  She  was 
looking  for  the  fourth,  which  was  standing  at  the  greatest  distance 
from  her  ; but  the  wall  opened,  while  the  glittering  vein  started 
and  split,  as  lightning  does,  and  disappeared. 

A Man  of  middle  stature,  entering  through  the  cleft,  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  Snake.  He  was  dressed  like  a peasant,  and 
carried  in  his  hand  a little  Lamp,  on  whose  still  flame  you  liked 
to  look,  and  which  in  a strange  manner,  without  casting  any 
shadow,  enlightened  the  whole  dome.1 

“ Why  comest  thou,  since  we  have  light  ? ” said  the  golden  King. 
— “You  know  that  I may  not  enlighten  what  is  dark.”2 — “Will 
my  Kingdom  end  ? ” said  the  silver  King. — “ Late  or  never,”  said 
the  old  Man. 

With  a stronger  voice  the  brazen  King  began  to  ask  : “When  ' 
shall  I arise  ? ” — “ Soon,”  replied  the  Man. — “ With  whom  shall  I 

1 Poetic  Light,  celestial  Pieason  ! — D.  T. 

Let  the  reader,  in  one  word,  attend  well  to  these  four  Kings  : much  annota- 
tion from  D.  T.  is  here  necessarily  swept  out. — O.  Y. 

2 What  is  wholly  dark.  Understanding  precedes  Reason ; modern  Science  is 
come  ; modern  Poesy  is  still  but  coming, — in  Goethe  (and  whom  else?.). — D.  T. 

9 


130 


APPENDIX. 


combine?”  said  the  King. — “ With  thy  elder  brothers,”  said  the 
Man. — “ What  will  the  youngest  do  ? ” inquired  the  King. — “ He 
will  sit  down,”  replied  the  Man. 

“I  am  not  tired,”  cried  the  fourth  King,  with  a rough  faltering 
voice.' 

While  this  speech  was  going  on,  the  Snake  had  glided  - softly 
round  the  Temple,  viewing  everything ; she  was  now  looking  at 
the  fourth  King  close  by  him.  He  stood  leaning  on  a pillar ; his 
considerable  form  was  heavy  rather  than  beautiful.  But  what 
metal  it  was  made  of  could  not  be  determined.  Closely  inspected, 
it  seemed  a mixture  of  the  three  metals  which  its  brothers  had 
been  formed  of.  But  in  the  founding,  these  materials  did  not  seem 
to  have  combined  together  fully  ; gold  and  silver  veins  ran  irreg- 
ularly through  a brazen  mass,  and  gave  the  figure  an  unpleasant 
aspect. 

Meanwhile  the  gold  King  was  asking  of  the  Man,  “ How  many 
secrets  knowest  thou?” — “Three,”  replied  the  Man. — “Which 
is  the  most  important?”  said  the  silver  King. — “ The  open  one,” 
replied  the  other.2 — “ Wilt  thou  open  it  to  us  also  ? ” said  the  brass 
King. — “When  I know  the  fourth,”  replied  the  Man. — “What 
care  I ? ” grumbled  the  composite  King,  in  an  under  tone. 

“I  know  the  fourth,”  said  the  Snake;  approached  the  old 
Man,  and  hissed  somewhat  in  his  ear.  “The  time  is  at  hand ! ” 
cried  the  old  Man,  with  a strong  voice.  The  temple  reechoed,  the 
metal  statues'  sounded ; and  that  instant  the  old  Man  sank  away 
to  the  westward,  and  the  Snake  to  the  eastward;  and  both  of 
them  passed  through  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  with  the  greatest 
speed. 

All  the  passages,  through  which  the  old  Man  travelled,  filled 
themselves  immediately  behind  him,  with  gold ; for  his  Lamp  had 
the  strange  property  of  changing  stone  into  gold,  wood  into  silver, 
dead  animals  into  precious  stones,  and  of  annihilating  all  metals. 
But  to  display  this  power,  it  must  shine  alone.  If  another  light 
were  beside  it,  the  Lamp  only  cast  from  it  a pure  clear  brightness, 
and  all  living  things  were  refreshed  by  it.3 

1 Consider  these  Kings  as  Eras  of  the  World’s  History  ; no,  not  as  Eras,  but 
as  Principles  which  jointly  or  severally  rule  Eras.  Alas,  poor  we,  in  this 
chaotic  soft-soldered  ‘ transitionary  age,’  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  live  under 
the  Fourth  King. — D.  T. 

2 Reader,  hast  thou  any  glimpse  of  the  1 open  secret  ? ’ I fear,  not. — D.  T. 
Writer,  art  thou  a goose  ? I fear,  yes.— O.  .Y. 

3 In  Illuminated  Ages,  the  Age  of  Miracles  is  said  to  cease  ; but  it  is  only 
we  that  cease  to  see  it,  for  we  are  still  1 refreshed  by  it.’ — D.  T. 


APPENDIX. 


131 


Tlie  old  Man  entered  his  cottage,  which  was  built  on  the  slope  of 
the  hill.  He  found  his  Wife  in  extreme  distress.  She  was  sitting 
at  the  fire  weeping,  and  refusing  to  be  consoled.  “ How  unliapjjy 
am  I ! ” cried  she  : “ Did  not  I entreat  thee  not  to  go  away  to- 
night ? ” — “ What  is  the  matter,  then  ? ” inquired  the  husband,  quite 
composed. 

“ Scarcely  wert  thou  gone,”  said  she,  sobbing,  “ when  there  came 
two  noisy  Travellers  to  the  door  : unthinkingly  I let  them  in  ; they 
seemed  to  be  a couple  of  genteel,  very  honourable  people ; they 
were  dressed  in  flames,  you  would  have  taken  them  for  Will-o’- 
wisps.  But  no  sooner  were  they  in  the  house,  than  they  began, 
like  impudent  varlets,  to  compliment  me,1  and  grew  so  forward  that 
I feel  ashamed  to  think  of  it.” 

“No  doubt,”  said  the  husband  with  a smile,  “the  gentlemen 
were  jesting  : considering  thy  age,  they  might  have  held  by  gen- 
eral politeness.” 

“ Age  ! what  age  ? ” cried  the  Wife  : “wilt  thou  always  be  talk- 
ing of  my  age  ? How  old  am  I,  then  ? — General  politeness  ! But 
I know  what  I know.  Look  round  there  what  a face  the  walls  have  ; 
look  at  the  old  stones,  which  I have  not  seen  these  hundred 
years  ; every  film  of  gold  have  they  licked  away,  thou  couldst  not 
think  how  fast ; and  still  they  kept  assuring  me  that  it  tasted  far 
beyond  common  gold.  Once  they  had  swept  the  walls,  the  fellows 
seemed  to  be  in  high  spirits,  and  truly  in  that  little  while  they  had 
grown  much  broader  and  brighter.  They  now  began  to  be  imper- 
tinent again,  they  patted  me,  and  called  me  their  queen,  they 
shook  themselves,  and  a shower  of  gold-pieces  sprang  from  them  ; 
see  how  they  are  shining  there  under  the  bench  ! But  ah,  what 
misery  ! Poor  Mops  ate  a coin  or  two  ; and  look,  he  is  lying  in  the 
chimney,  dead.  Poor  Pug ! O well-a-day  ! • I did  not  see  it  till 
they  were  gone  ; else  I had  never  promised  to  pay  the  Ferryman 
the  debt  they  owe  him.”' — “ What  do  they  owe  him  ? ” said  the  Man. 
— “Three  Cabbages,”  replied  the  Wife,  “three  Artichokes  and 
three  Onions  : I engaged  to  go  when  it  was  day,  and  take  them  to 
the  River.” 

“ Thou  mayest  do  them  that  civility,”  said  the  old  Man  ; “ they 
may  chance  to  be  of  use  to  us  again.” 


1 Poor  old  Practical  Endeavour  ! Listen  to  many  an  encyclopedic  Diderot, 
humanised  Philosophe , didactic  singer,  march-of- intellect  man,  and  other 
‘ impudent  varlets  ’ (who  would  never  put  their  own  finger  to  the  work)  ; and 
hear  what  1 compliments  ’ they  uttered. — D.  T. 


132 


APPENDIX. 


1 ‘ Whether  they  will  be  of  use  to  us  I know  not ; but  they  prom- 
ised and  vowed  that  they  would.” 

Meantime  the  fixe  on  the  hearth  had  burnt  low;  the  old  Man 
covered-up  the  embers  with  a heap  of  ashes,  and  put  the  glittering 
gold-pieces  aside  ; so  that  his  little  Lamp  now  gleamed  alone,  in 
the  fairest  brightness.  The  walls  again  coated  themselves  with 
gold,  and  Mops  changed  into  the  prettiest  onyx  that  could  be  im- 
agined. The  alternation  of  the  brown  and  black  in  this  precious 
stone  made  it  the  most  curious  piece  of  workmanship. 

“ Take  thy  basket,”  said  the  Man,  “ and  put  the  onyx  into  it ; 
then  take  the  three  Cabbages,  the  three  Artichokes  and  the  three 
Onions ; place  them  round  little  Mops  and  carry  them  to  the 
River.  At  noon  the  Snake  will  take  thee  over ; visit  the  fair  Lily, 
give  her  the  onyx,  she  will  make  it  alive  by  her  touch,  as  by  her 
touch  she  kills  whatever  is  alive  already.  She  will  have  a true 
companion  in  the  little  dog.  Tell  her  not  to  mourn  ; her  deliver- 
ance is  near  ; the  greatest  misfortune  she  may  look  upon  as  the 
greatest  happiness  ; for  the  time  is  at  hand.” 

The  old  Woman  filled  her  basket,  and  set  out  as  soon  as  it  was 
day.  The  rising  sun  shone  clear  from  the  other  side  of  the  River, 
which  was  glittering  in  the  distance : the  old  Woman  walked  with 
slow  steps,  for  the  basket  pressed  upon  her  head,  and  it  was  not 
the  onyx  that  so  burdened  her.  Whatever  lifeless  thing  she  might 
be  carrying,  she  did  not  feel  the  weight  of  it ; on  the  other  hand, 
in  those  cases  the  basket  rose  aloft,  and  hovered  along  above  her 
head.  But  to  carry  any  fresh  herbage,  or  any  little  living  animal, 
she  found  exceedingly  laborious. 1 She  had  travelled-on  for  some 
time,  in  a sullen  humour,  when  she  halted -suddenly  in  fright,  for 
she  had  almost  trod  upon  the  Giant’s  shadow,  which  was  stretch- 
ing towards  her  across  the  plain.  And  now,  lifting  up  her  eyes, 
she  saw  the  monster  of  a Giant  himself,  who  had  been  bathing  in 
the  River,  and  was  just  come  out,2  and  she  knew  not  how  she 
should  avoid  him.  The  moment  he  perceived  her,  he  began  salut- 
ing her  in  sport,  and  the  hands  of  his  shadow  soon  caught  hold 
of  the  basket.  With  dexterous  ease  they  picked  away  from  it  a 
Cabbage,  an  Artichoke  and  an  Onion,  and  brought  them  to  the 

1 Why  so  ? Is  it  because  with  ‘ lifeless  things  ’ (with  inanimate  machinery) 
all  goes  like  clock-work,  which  it  is,  and  ‘the  basket  hovers  aloft ; ’ while  with 
living  things  (were  it  but  the  culture  of  forest-trees)  poor  Endeavour  has 
more  difficulty  ? — D.  T.  Or,  is  it  chiefly  because  a Tale  must  be  a Tale  ? — 
O.  Y. 

- Very  proper  in  the  huge  Loggerhead  Superstition,  to  bathe  himself  in  the 
element  of  Time,  and  get  refreshment  thereby. — D.  T. 


APPENDIX. 


133 


Giant’s  mouth,  who  then  went  his  way  up  the  Eiver,  and  let  the 
Woman  go  in  peace. 

She  considered  whether  it  would  not  he  better  to  return,  and 
supply  from  her  garden  the  jueces  she  had  lost ; and  amid  these 
doubts,  she  still  kept  walking  on,  so  that  in  a little  while  she  was 
at  the  bank  of  the  Eiver.  She  sat  long  waiting  for  the  Ferryman, 
whom  she  perceived  at  last,  steering  over  .with  a very  singular 
traveller.  A young,  noble-looking,  handsome  man,  whom  she 
could  not  gaze  upon  enough,  stept  out  of  the  boat. 

“ What  is  it  you  bring  ? ” cried  the  old  Man. — “ The  greens 
which  those  two  Will-o’-wisps  owe  you,”  said  the  Woman,  point- 
ing to  her  ware.  As  the  Ferryman  found  only  two  of  each  sort, 
he  grew  angry,  and  declared  he  would  have  none  of  them.  The 
Woman  earnestly  entreated  him  to  take  them ; told  him  that  she 
could  not  now  go  home,  and  that  her  burden  for  the  way  which 
still  remained  was  very  heavy.  He  stood  by  his  refusal,  and  as- 
sured her  that  it  did  not  rest  with  him.  “What  belongs  to  me,” 
said  he,  “ I must  leave  lying  nine  hours  in  a heap,  touching  none 
of  it,  till  I have  given  the  Eiver  its  third.”  After  much  higgling, 
the  old  Man  at  last  replied  : “ There  is  still  another  way.  If  you 
like  to  pledge  yourself  to  the  Eiver,  and  declare  yourself  its  debtor, 
I will  take  the  six  pieces  ; but  there  is  some  risk  in  it.” — “ If  I 
keep  my  word,  I shall  run  no  risk?” — “Not  the  smallest.  Put 
your  hand  into  the  stream,”  continued  he,  “ and  promise  that 
within  four-and-twenty  hours  you  will  pay  the  debt.” 

The  old  Woman  did  so  ; but  what  was  her  affright,  when  on 
drawing  out  her  hand,  she  found  it  black  as  coal ! She  loudly 
scolded  the  old  Ferryman  ; declared  that  her  hands  had  always 
been  the  fairest  part  of  her ; that  in  spite  of  her  hard  work,  she 
had  all  along  contrived  to  keej)  these  noble  members  white  and 
dainty.  She  looked  at  the  hand  with  indignation,  and  exclaimed 
in  a despairing  tone  : “ Worse  and  worse  ! Look,  it  is  vanishing 
entirely  ; it  is  grown  far  smaller  than  the  other.”  1 

“ For  the  present  it  but  seems  so,”  said  the  old  Man  ; “if  you 
do  not  keep  your  word,  however,  it  may  prove  so  in  earnest.  The 
hand  will  gradually  diminish,  and  at  length  disappear  altogether, 
though  you  have  the  use  of  it  as  formerly.  Everything  as  usual 
you  will  be  able  to  perform  with  it,  only  nobody  will  see  it.” — “ I 
had  rather  that  I could  not  use  it,  and  no  one  could  observe  the 

1 A dangerous  thing  to  pledge  yourself  to  the  Time-River; — as  many  a Na- 
tional Debt,  and  the  like,  blackening,  bewitching  the  ‘beautiful  hand’  of  En- 
deavour, can  witness. — D.  T.  Heavens! — O.  Y. 


134 


APPENDIX. 


want,”  cried  she  : “ but  what  of  that,  I will  keep  my  word,  and  rid 
myself  of  this  black  skin,  and  all  anxieties  about  it.”  Thereupon 
she  hastily  took  up  her  basket,  which  mounted  of  itself  over  her 
head,  and  hovered  free  above  her  in  the  air,  as  she  hurried  after 
the  Youth,  who  was  walking  softly  and  thoughtfully  down  the 
bank.  His  noble  form  and  strange  dress  had  made  a deep  im- 
pression on  her. 

His  breast  was  covered  with  a glittering  coat  of  mail ; in  whose 
wavings  might  be  traced  every  motion  of  his  fair  body.  From  his 
shoulders  hung  a purple  cloak ; around  his  uncovered  head  flowed 
abundant  brown  hair  in  beautiful  locks  : his  graceful  face,  and  his 
well-formed  feet,  were  exposed  to  the  scorching  of  the  sun.  "With 
bare  soles,  he  walked  composedly  over  the  hot  sand  ; and  a deep 
inward  sorrow  seemed  to  blunt  him  against  all  external  things. 

The  garrulous  old  Woman  tried  to  lead  him  into  conversation  ; 
but 'with  his  short  answers  he  gave  her  small  encouragement  or  in- 
formation ; so  that  in  the  end,  notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  his 
eyes,  she  grew  tired  of  speaking  with  him  to  no  purpose,  and  took 
leave  of  him  with  these  words : “You  walk  too  slow  for  me,  worthy 
sir ; I must  not  lose  a moment,  for  I have  to  pass  the  River  on  the 
green  Snake,  and  cany  this  fine  present  from  my  husband  to  the 
fair  Lily.”  So  saying  she  stept  faster  forward  ; but  the  fair  Youth 
pushed  on  with  equal  speed,  and  hastened  to  keep  up  with  her. 
“ You  are  going  to  the  fair  Lily!  ” cried  he  ; “ then  our  roads  are 
the  same.  But  what  present  is  this  you  are  bringing  her  ? ” 

“ Sir,”  said  the  Woman,  “ it  is  hardly  fair,  after  so  briefly  dis- 
missing the  questions  I put  to  you,  to  inquire  with  such  vivacity 
about  my  secrets.  But  if  you  like  to  barter,  and  tell  me  your  ad- 
ventures, I Will  not  conceal  from  you  how  it  stands  with  me  and 
my  presents.”  They  soon  made  a bargain ; the  dame  disclosed  her 
circumstances  to  him  ; told  the  history  of  the  Pug,  and  let  him  see 
the  singular  gift. 

He  lifted  this  natural  curiosity  from  the  basket,  and  took  Mops, 
who  seemed  as  if  sleeping  softly,  into  his  arms.  “ Happy  beast ! ” 
cried  he ; “ thou  wilt  be  touched  by  her  bauds,  thou  wilt  be  made 
alive  by  her ; while  the  living  are  obliged  to  fly  from  her  presence 
to  escape  a mournful  doom.  Yet  why  say  I mournful?  Is  it  not 
far  sadder  and  more  frightful  to  be  injured  by  her  look,  than  it 
would  be  to  die  by  her  hand  ? Behold  me,”  said  he  to  the  Woman  ; 
“ at  my  years,  what  a miserable  fate  have  I to  undergo.  This 
mail  which  I have  honourably  borne  in  war,  this  purple  which 
I sought  to  merit  by  a wise  reign,  Destiny  has  left  me ; the  one  as 


APPENDIX. 


135 


a useless  burden,  the  other  as  an  empty  ornament.  Crown,  and 
sceptre,  and  sword  are  gone ; and  I am  as  bare  and  needy  as  any 
other  son  of  earth  ; for  so  unblessed  are  her  bright  eyes,  that  they 
take  from  every  living  creature  they  look  on  all  its  force,  and  those 
whom  the  touch  of  her  hand  does  not  kill  are  changed  to  the  state 
of  shadows  wandering  alive.” 

Thus  did  he  continue  to  bewail,  nowise  contenting  the  old 
Woman’s  curiosity,  who  wished  for  information  not  so  much  of 
his  internal  as  of  his  external  situation.  She  learned  neither  the 
name  of  his  father,  nor  of  his  kingdom.  He  stroked  the  hard 
Mops,  whom  the  sunbeams  and  the  bosom  of  the  youth  had  warmed 
as  if  he  had  been  living.  He  inquired  narrowly  about  the  Man 
with  the  Lamp,  about  the  influences  of  the  sacred  light,  appearing 
to  expect  much  good  from  it  in  his  melancholy  case. 

' Amid  such  conversation,  they  descried  from  afar  the  majestic 
arch  of  the  Bridge,  which  extended  from  the  one  bank  to  the 
other,  glittering  with  the  strangest  colours  in  the  splendours,  of 
the  sun.  Both  were  astonished ; for  until  now  they  had  never 
seen  this  edifice  so  grand.  “ How ! ” cried  the  Prince,  “ was  it 
not  beautiful  enough,  as  it  stood  before  our  eyes,  piled  out  of  jas- 
per and  agate  ? Shall  we  not  fear  to  tread  it,  now  that  it  appears 
combined,  in  graceful  complexity  of  emerald  and  chrysojiras  and 
chrysolite  ? ” Neither  of  them  knew  the  alteration  that  had  taken 
place  upon  the  Snake  : for  it  was  indeed  the  Snake,  who  every  day 
at  noon  curved  herself  over  the  Biver,  and  stood  forth  in  the  form 
of  a bold-swelling  bridge.1  The  travellers  stept  upon  it  with  a rev- 
erential -feeling,  and  passed  over  it  in  silence. 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  other  shore,  than  the  bridge 
began  to  heave  and  stir  ; in  a little  while,  it  touched  the  surface  of 
the  water,  and  the  green  Snake  in  her  proper  form  came  gliding 
after  the  wanderers.  They  had  scarcely  thanked  her  for  the  privi- 
lege of  crossing  on  her  back,  when  they  found  that,  besides  them 
three,  there  must  be  other  persons  in  the  company,  whom  their 
eyes  could  not  discern.  They  heard  a hissing,  which  the  Snake 
also  answered  with  a hissing ; they  listened,  and  at  length  caught 
what  follows:  “5Ve  shall  first  look  about  us  in  the  fair  Lily's 
Park,”  said  a pair  of  alternating  voices  ; “ and  then  request  you  at 
nightfall,  so  soon  as  we  are  anywise  presentable,  to  introduce  us  to 
this  paragon  of  beauty.  At  the  shore  of  the  great  Lake  you  will 


1 If  aught  can  overspan  the  Time-River,  then  what  but  Understanding,  but 
Thought,  in  its  moment  of  plenitude,  in  its  favourable  noon-moment  ? — D.  T 


136 


APPENDIX. 


find  ns.” — “Be  it  so,”  replied  the  Snake  ; and  a hissing  sound  died 
away  in  the  air. 

Our  three-travellers  now  consulted  in  what  order  they  should  in- 
troduce themselves  to  the  fair  Lady ; for  however  many  people 
might  be  in  her  company,  they  were  obliged  to  enter  and  depart 
singly,  under  pain  of  suffering  very  hard  severities. 

The  Woman  with  the  metamorphosed  Pug  in  the  basket  first 
approached  the  garden,  looking  round  for  her  Patroness ; who  was 
not  difficult  to  find,  being  just  engaged  in  singing  to  her  haip. 
The  finest  tones  proceeded  from  her,  first  like  circles  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  still  lake,  then  like  a light  breath  they  set  the  grass 
and  the  bushes  in  motion.  In  a green  enclosure,  under  the  shadow 
of  a stately  group  of  many  diverse  trees,  was  she  seated  ; and  again 
did  she  enchant  the  eyes,  the  ears  and  the  heart  of  the  "Woman, 
who  approached  with  rapture,  and  swore  within  herself  that  since 
she  saw  her  last,  the  fair  one  had  grown  fairer  than  ever.  With 
eager  gladness,  from  a distance,  she  expressed  her  reverence  and 
admiration  for  the  lovely  maiden.  “ What  a happiness  to  see  you, 
what  a Heaven  does  your  presence  spread  around  you ! How 
charmingly  the  harp  is  leaning  on  your  bosom,  how  softly  your 
arms  surround  it,  how  it  seems  as  if  longing  to  be  near  you,  and 
how  it  sounds  so  meekly  under  the  touch  of  your  slim  fingers  ! 
Tlirice-kappy  youth,  to  whom  it  were  permitted  to  be  there  ! 

So  speaking  she  approached  ; the  fair  Lily  raised  her  eyes  ; let 
her  hands  drop  from  the  harp,  and  answered : “ Trouble  me  not 
with  untimely  praise  ; I feel  my  misery  but  the  more  deeply.  Look 
here,  at  my  feet  lies  the  poor  Canary-bird,  which  used  so  beauti- 
fully to  accompany  my  singing  ; it  would  sit  upon  my  harp,  and  was 
trained  not  to  touch  me  ; but  to-day,  while  I,  refreshed  by  sleep, 
was  raising  a peaceful  morning  hymn,  and  my  little  singer  was  pour- 
ing forth  his  harmonious  tones  more  gaily  than  ever,  a Hawk  darts 
over  my  head ; the  poor  little  creature,  in  affright,  takes  refuge  in 
my  bosom,  and  I feel  the  last  palpitations  of  its  departing  life. 
The  plundering  Hawk  indeed  was  caught  by  my  look,  and  fluttered 
fainting  down  into  the  water  ; but  what  can  his  punishment  avail 
me  ? my  darling  is  dead,  and  his  grave  will  but  increase  the  mourn- 
ful bushes  pf  my  garden.” 

“ Take  courage,  fairest  Lily ! ” cried  the  Woman,  wiping  off  a 
tear,  which  the  story  of  the  hapless  maiden  had  called  into  her 
eyes  ; ‘ ‘ compose  yourself  ; my  old  man  bids  me  tell  you  to  mod- 
erate your  lamenting,  to  look 'upon  the  greatest  misfortune  as  a 
forerunner  of  the  greatest  happiness,  for  the  time  is  at  hand  : and 


APPENDIX. 


137 


truly,”  continued  slie,  “ the  world  is  going  strangely  on  of  late. 
Do  but  look  at  rfty  hand,  how  black  it  is ! As  I live  and  breathe, 
it  is  grown  far  smaller  : I must  hasten,  before  it  vanish  altogether  ! 
Why  did  I engage  to  do  the  Will-o’-wisps  a service,  why  did  I meet 
the  Giant’s  shadow,  and  dip  my  hand  in  the  Biver  ? Could  you 
not  afford  me  a single  cabbage,  an  artichoke  and  an  onion  ? I would 
give  them  to  the  Biver,  and  my  hand  were  white  as  ever,  so  that  I 
could  almost  show  it  with  one  of  yours.” 

“ Cabbages  and  onions  thou  mayest  still  find ; but  artichokes 
thou  wilt  search  for  in  vain.  No  plant  in  my  garden  bears  either 
flowers  or  fruit ; but  every  twig  that  I break,  and  plant  upon  the 
grave  of  a favourite,  grows  green  straightway,  and  shoots  up  in  fair 
boughs.  All  these  groups,  these  bushes,  these  groves  my  hard  des- 
tiny has  so  raised  around  me.  These  pines  stretching  out  like  para- 
sols, these  obelisks  of  cypresses,  these  colossal  oaks  and  beeches, 
were  all  little  twigs  planted  by  my  hand,  as  mournful  memorials  in 
a soil  that  otherwise  is  barren.”  1 

To  this  speech  the  old  Woman  had  paid  little  heed ; she  was 
looking  at  her  hand,  which,  in  presence  of  the  fan-  Lily,  seemed 
every  moment  growing  blacker  and  smaller.  She  was  about  to 
snatch  her  basket  and  hasten  off,  when  she  noticed  that  the  best 
part  of  her  errand  had  been  forgotten.  She  lifted  out  the  onyx  Pug, 
and  set  him  down,  not  far  from  the  fair  one,  in  the  grass.  “ My 
husband,”  said  she,  “sends  you  this  memorial;  you  know  that 
you  can  make  a jewel  live  by  touching  it.  This  iiretty  faithful  dog- 
will  certainly  afford  you  much  enjoyment ; and  my  grief  at  losing 
him  is  brightened  only  by  the  thought  that  he  will  be  in  your  pos- 
session.” 

The  fan-  Lily  viewed  the  dainty  creature  with  a pleased  and,  as 
it  seemed,  with  an  astonished  look.  “ Many  signs  combine,”  said 
she,  “ that  breathe  some  hope  into  me  : but  ah ! is  it  not  a natural 
deception  which  makes  us  fancy,  when  misfortunes  crowd  upon  us, 
that  a better  day  is  near  ? 


“ What  can  these  many  signs  avail  me  ? 

My  Singer’s  Death,  thy  coal-black  Hand  ? 
This  Dog  of  Onyx,  that  can  never  fail  me  ? 
And  coming  at  the  Lamp’s  command  ? 


1 In  Supernaturalism,  truly,  what  is  there  either  of  flower  or  of  fruit  ? 
Nothing  that  will  (altogether)  content  the  greedy  Time-River.  Stupendous, 
funereal  sacred  groves,  1 in  a soil  that  otherwise  is  barren  ! ’ — D.  T. 


138 


APPENDIX. 


Prom  human  joys  removed  forever, 

With  sorrows  compassed  round  I sit : 

Is  there  a Temple  at  the  River  ? 

Is  there  a Bridge  ? Alas,  not  yet ! ” 

The  good  old  dame  had  listened  with  impatience  to  this  singing, 
which  the  fair  Lily  accompanied  with  her  harp,  in  a way  that  would 
have  charmed  any  other.  She  was  on  the  point  of  taking  leave, 
when  the  "arrival  of  the  green  Snake  again  detained  her.  The  Snake 
had  canght  the  last  lines  of  the  song,  and  on  this  matter  forthwith 
began  to  speak  comfort  to  the  fair  Lily. 

‘ ‘ The  prophecy  of  the  Bridge  is  fulfilled  ! ” ciied  the  Snake  : 
“ you  may  ask  this  worthy  dame  how  royally  the  arch  looks  now. 
What  formerly  was  untransparent  jasper,  or  agate,  allowing  but 
a gleam  of  light  to  pass  about  its  edges,  is  now  become  transparent 
precious  stone.  No  beryl  is  so  clear,  no  emerald  so  beautiful  of 
hue.” 

“ I wish  you  joy  of  it,”  said  Lily  ; “ but  you  will  pardon  me  if  I 
regard  the  prophecy  as  yet  unaccomplished.  The  lofty  arch  of  your 
bridge  can  still  but  admit  foot-passengers ; and  it  is  promised  us 
that  horses  and  carriages  and  travellers  of  every  sort  shall,  at  the 
same  moment,  cross  this  bridge  in  both  directions.  Is  there  not 
something  said,  too,  about  pillars,  which  are  to  arise  of  themselves 
from  the  waters  of  the  Biver  ? ” 

The  old  Woman  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  hand  ; she  here 
interrupted  them  dialogue,  and  was  taking  leave.  “Wait  a mo- 
ment,” said  the  fair  Lily,  “ and  carry  my  little  bird  with  you.  Bid 
the  Lamp  change  it  into  a topaz ; I will  enliven  it  by  my  touch  ; 
with  your  good  Mops  it  shall  form  my  dearest  pastime  : but  hasten, 
hasten  ; for,  at  sunset,  intolerable  putrefaction  will  fasten  on  the 
hapless  bird,  and  tear  asunder  the  fair  combination  of  its  form  for- 
ever.” 

The  old  Woman  laid  the  little  corpse,  wrapped  in  soft  leaves, 
into  her  basket,  and  hastened  away. 

“ However  it  may  be,”  said  the  Snake,  recommencing  their  in- 
terrupted dialogue,  “ the  Temple  is  built.” 

“ But  it  is  not  at  the  Biver,”  said  the  fair  one. 

“ It  is  yet  resting  in  the  depths  of  the  Earth,”  said  the  Snake ; 
“ I have  seen  the  Kings  and  conversed  with  them.” 

“ But  when  will  they  arise  ? ” inquired  Lily. 

The  Snake  replied  . “ I heard  resounding  in  the  Temple  these 
deep  words,  The  time  is  at  hand.” 

A pleasing  cheerfulness  spread  over  the  fair  Lily’s  face : “ ’Tis 


APPENDIX. 


139 


the  second  time,”  said  she,  “ that  I have  heard  these  happy  words 
to-day  : when  will  the  day  come  for  me  to  hear  them  thrice  ? ” 

She  arose,  and  immediately  there  came  a lovely  maiden  from 
the  grove,  and  took  away  her  harp.  Another  followed  her,  and 
folded-np  the  fine  carved  ivory  stool,  on  which  the  fair  one  had 
been  sitting,  and  put  the  silvery  cushion  under  her  arm.  A third 
then  made  her  appearance,  with  a large  parasol  worked  with 
pearls  ; and  looked  whether  Lily  would  require  her  in  walking. 
These  three  maidens  were  beyond  expression  beautiful ; and  yet 
their  beauty  but  exalted  that  of  Lily,  for  it  was  plain  to  every  one 
that  they  could  never  be  compared  to  her.  1 

Meanwhile  the  fair  one  had  been  looking,  with  a satisfied  as- 
pect, at  the  strange  onyx  Mops.  She  bent  down  and  touched 
him,  and  that  instant  he  started  up.  Gaily  he  looked  around, 
ran  hither  and  thither,  and  at  last,  in  his  kindest  manner,  hastened 
to  salute  his  benefactress.  She  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  pressed 
him  to  her.  “ Cold  as  thou  art,”  cried  .she,  “and  though  but  a 
half-life  works  in  thee,  thou  art  welcome  to  me  ; tenderly  will  I 
love  thee,  prettily  will  I play  with  thee,  softly  caress  thee,  and 
firmly  press  thee  to  my  bosom.”  She  then  let  him  go,  chased 
him  from  her,  called  him  bacl^  and  played  so  daintily  with 
him,  and  ran  about  so  gaily  and  so  innocently  with  him  on  the 
grass,  that  with  new  rapture  you  viewed  and  participated  in  her 
joy,  as  a little  while  ago  her  sorrow  had  attuned  every  heart  to 
sympathy. 

This  cheerfulness,  these  graceful  sports  were  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  the  woful  Youth.  He  stepped  forward,  in  his 
former  guise  and  aspect ; save  that  the  heat  of  the  day  appeared  to 
have  fatigued  him  still  more,  and  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress 
he  grew  paler  every  moment.  He  bore  upon  his  hand  a Hawk, 
which  was  sitting  quiet  as  a dove,  with  its  body  shrunk,  and  its 
wings  drooping. 

“It  is  not  kind  in  thee,”  cried  Lily  to  him,  “to  bring  that 
hateful  thing  before  my  eyes,  the  monster,  which  to-day  has 
killed  my  little  singer.” 

“Blame  not  the  unhappy  bird!  ” replied  the  Youth;  “rather 
blame  thyself  and  thy  destiny  ; and  leave  me  to  keep  beside  me 
the  companion  of  my  woe.” 

Meanwhile  Mops  ceased  not  teasing  the  fair  Lily  ; and  she  re- 
plied to  her  transparent  favourite,  with  friendly  gestures.  She 

1 Who  are  these  three  ? Faith,  Hope  and  Charity,  or  others  of  that  kin  ? 
— D.  T.  Faith,  Hope  and  Fiddlestick  ! — 0.  Y. 


14:0- 


APPENDIX. 


clapped  her  hands  to  scare  him  off ; then  ran,  to  entice  him  after 
her.  She  tried  to  get  him  when  he  fled,  and  she  chased  him 
away  when  he  attempted  to  press  near  her.  The  Youth  looked 
on  in  silence,  with  increasing  anger ; but  at  last,  when  she  took 
the  odious  beast,  which  seemed  to  him  unutterably  ugly,  on  her 
arm,  pressed  it  to  her  white  bosom,  and  kissed  its  black  snout 
with  her  heavenly  lips,  his  patience  altogether  failed  him,  and 
full  of  desperation  he  exclaimed  : ‘ ‘ Must  I,  who  by  a baleful  fate 
exist  beside  thee,  perhaps  to  the  end,  in  an  absent  presence  ; who 
by  thee  have  lost  my  all,  my  very  self ; must  I see  before  my 
eyes,  that  so  unnatural  a monster  can  charm  thee  into  gladness, 
can  awaken  thy  attachment,  and  enjoy  thy  embrace  ? Shall  I any 
longer  keep  wandering  to  and  fro,  measuring  my  dreary  course  to 
that  side  of  the  River  and  to  this  ? No,  there  is  still  a spark  of  the 
old  heroic  spirit  sleeping  in  my  bosom ; let  it  start  this  instant 
into  its  expiring  flame ! If  stones  may  rest  in  thy  bosom,  let  me 
be  changed  to  stone  ; if  thy  touch  kills,  I will  die  by  thy  hands.” 

So  saying  he  made  a violent  movement ; the  Hawk  flew  from 
his  finger,  but  he  himself  rushed  towards  the  fair  one ; she  held 
out  her  hands  to  keep  him  off,  and  touched  him  only  the  sooner. 
Consciousness  forsook  him  ; and*  she  felt  with  horror  the  beloved 
burden  lying  on  her  bosom.  "With  a shriek  she  started  back,  and 
the  gentle  youth  sank  lifeless  from  her  arms  upon  the  ground. 

The  misery  had  happened ! The  sweet  Lily  stood  motionless 
gazing  on  the  corpse.  Her  heart  seemed  to  pause  in  her  bosom ; 
and  her  eyes  were  without  tears.  In  vain  did  Mops  try  to  gain 
from  her  any  kindly  gesture ; with  her  friend,  the  world  for  her 
was  all  dead  as  the  grave.  Her  silenl  despair  did  not  look  round 
for  help  ; she  knew  not  of  any  help. 

On  the  hand,  the  Snake  bestirred  herself  the  more  actively, 
she  seemed  to  meditate  deliverance  ; and  in  fact  her  strange  move- 
ments served  at  least  to  keep  away,  for  a little,  the  immediate 
consequences  of  the  mischief.  With  her  limber  body,  she  formed 
a wide  circle  round  the  corpse,  and  seizing  the  end  of  her  tail  be- 
tween her  teeth,  she  lay  quite  still. 

Ere  long  one  of  Lily’s  fair  waiting-maids  appeared  ; brought  the 
ivory  folding-stool,  and  with  friendly  beckoning  constrained  her 
mistress  to  sit  down  on  it.  Soon  afterwards  there  came  a second ; 
she  had  in  her  hand  a fire-coloured  veil,  with  which  she  rather 
decorated  than  concealed  the  fair  Lily’s  head.  The  third  handed 
her  the  harp,  and  scarcely  had  she  drawn  the  gorgeous  instrument 
towards  her,  and  struck  some  tones  from  its  strings,  when  the  first 


APPENDIX. 


141 


maid  returned  with  a clear  round  mirror  ; took  her  station  opposite 
the  fair  one  ; caught  her  looks  in  the  glass,  and  threw  back  to  her 
the  loveliest  image  that  was  to  be  found  in  Nature.1  Sorrow 
heightened  her  bea’utv,  the  veil  her  charms,  the  harp  her  grace ; 
and  deeply  as  you  wished  to  see  her  mournful  situation  altered, 
not  less  deeply  did  you  wish  to  keep  her  image,  as  she  now  looked, 
forever  present  with  you. 

With  a still  look  at  the  mirror,  she  touched  the  harp  ; now  melt- 
ing tones  proceeded  from  the  strings,  now  her  pain  seemed  to 
mount,  and  the  music  in  strong  notes  responded  to  her  woe ; 
sometimes  she  opened  her  lips  to  sing,  but  her  voice  failed  her ; 
and  ere  long  her  sorrow  melted  into  tears,  two  maidens  caught 
her  helpfully  in  their  arms,  the  harp  sank  from  her  bosom, 
scarcely  could  the  quick  servant  snatch  the  instrument  and  carry 
it  aside. 

“ Who  gets  us  the  Man  with  the  Lamp,  before  the  Sun  set  ? ” 
hissed  the  Snake,  faintly,  but  audibly : the  maids  looked  at  one 
another,  and  Lily’s  tears  fell  faster.  At  this  moment  came  the 
Woman  with  the  Basket,  panting  and  altogether  breathless.  “I 
am  lost,  and  maimed  for  life  ! ” cried  she  ; “ see  how  my  hand  is 
almost  vanished ; neither  Ferryman  nor  Giant  would  take  me 
over,  because  I am  the  River’s  debtor  ; in  vain  did  I promise  hun- 
dreds of  cabbages  and  hundreds  of  onions ; they  will  take  no 
more  than  three  ; and  no  artichoke  is  now  to  be  found  in  all  this 
quarter.” 

“ Forget  your  own  care,”  said  the  Snake,  “ and  try  to  bring 
help  here  ; perhaps  it  may  come  to  yourself  also.  Haste  with 
your  utmost  speed  to  seek  the  Will-o’-wisps ; it  is  too  light  for 
you  to  see  them,  but  perhaps  you  will  hear  them  laughing  and 
hopping  to  and  fro.  If  they  be  speedy,  they  may  cross  upon  the 
Giant’s  shadow,  and  seek  the  Man  with  the  Lamp,  and  send  him 
to  us.” 

The  Woman  hurried  off  at  her  quickest  pace,  and  the  Snake 
seemed  expecting  as  impatiently  as  Lily  the  return  of  the  Flames. 
Alas  ! the  beam  of  the  sinking  Sun  was  already  gilding  only  the 
highest  summits  of  the  trees  in  the  thicket,  and  long  shadows  were 

1 Does  not  man’s  soul  rest  by  Faith,  and  look  in  the  mirror  of  Faith  ? Does 
not  Hope  1 decorate  rather  than  conceal  ? ’ Is  not  Charity  (Love)  the  begin- 
ning of  music  ? — Behold  too,  how  the  Serpent,  in  this  great  hour,  has  made 
herself  a Serpent-of-Eternity  ; and  (even  as  genuine  Thought,  in  our  age, 
has  to  do  for  so  much)  preserves  the  seeming-dead  within  her  folds,  that  sus- 
pended animation  issue  not  in  noisome,  horrible,  irrevocable  dissolution ! — 
D.  T. 


142 


APPENDIX. 


stretching  over  lake  and  meadow ; the  Snake  hitched  up  and 
down  impatiently,  and  Lily  dissolved  in  tears. 

In  this  extreme  need,  the  Snake  kept  looking  round  on  all  sides ; 
for  she  was  afraid  every  moment  that  the  Sun*  would  set,  and  cor- 
ruption penetrate  the  magic  circle,  and  the  fair  youth  immedi- 
ately moulder  away.  At  last  she  noticed  sailing  high  in  the  air, 
with  purple-red  feathers,  the  Prince’s  Hawk,  whose  breast  was 
catching  the  last  beams  of  the  Sun.  She  shook  herself  for  joy  at 
this  good  omen ; nor  was  she  deceived  ; for  shortly  afterwards  the 
Man  with  the  Lamp  was  seen  gliding  towards  them  across  the 
Lake,  fast  and  smoothly,  as  if  he  had  been  travelling  on  skates. 

The  Snake  did  not  change  her  posture ; but  Lily  rose  and 
called  to  him:  “What  good  spiiit  sends  thee,  at  the  moment 
when  we  were  desiring  thee,  and  needing  thee,  so  much  ? ” 

“ The  spirit  of  my  Lamp,”  replied  the  Man,  “ has  impelled  me, 
and  the  Hawk  has  conducted  me.  My  Lamp  sparkles  when  I am 
needed,  and  I just  look  about  me  in  the  sky  for  a signal ; some  bird 
or  meteor  points  to  the  quarter  towards  which  I am  to  turn.  Be 
calm,  fairest  Maiden  ! Whether  I can  help,  I know  not ; an  indi- 
vidual helps  not,  but  he  who  combines  himself  with  many  at  the 
proper  hour.  We  will  postpone  the  evil,  and  keep  hoping.  Hold 
thy  circle  fast,”  continued  he,  turning  to  the  Snake  ; then  set  him- 
self upon  a hillock  beside  her,  and  illuminated  the  dead  body. 
“ Bring  the  little  Bird 1 hither  too,  and  lay  it  in  the  circle ! ” The 
maidens  took  the  little  corpse  from  the  basket,  which  the  old 
Woman  had  left  standing,  and  did  as  he  directed. 

Meanwhile  the  Sun  had  set ; and  as  the  darkness  increased,  not 
only  the  Snake  and  the  old  Man’s  Lamp  began  shining  in  their 
fashion,  but  also  Lily’s  veil  gave-out  a soft  light,  which  gracefully 
tinged,  as  with  a meek  dawning  red,  her  pale  cheeks  and  her  white 
robe.  The  party  looked  at  one  another,  silently  reflecting ; care 
and  sorrow  were  mitigated  by  a sure  hope. 

It  was  no  unpleasing  entrance,  therefore,  that  the  Woman  made, 
attended  by  the  two  gay  Flames,  which  in  truth  appeared  to 
have  been  very  lavish  in  the  interim,  for  they  had  again  become 
extremely  meagre  ; yet  they  only  bore  themselves  the  more  pret- 
tily for  that,  towards  Lily  and  the  other  ladies.  With  great  tact 
and  expressiveness,  they  said  a multitude  of  rather  common  things 

1 What  are  the  Hawk  and  this  Canary-bird,  which  here  prove  so  destructive 
to  one  another  ? Ministering  servants,  implements,  of  these  two  divided 
Halves  of  the  Human  Soul ; name  them  I will  not ; more  is  not  written. — 
D.  T. 


APPENDIX. 


143 


to  these  fair  persons  ; and  declared  themselves  particularly  rav- 
ished by  the  charm  which  the  gleaming  veil 1 spread  over  Lily  and 
her  attendants.  The  ladies  modestly  cast  down  their  eyes,  and  the 
praise  of  their  beauty  made  them  really  beautiful.  All  were  peace- 
ful and  calm,  except  the  old  Woman.  In  spite  of  the  assurance  of 
her  husband,  that  her  hand  could  diminish  no  farther,  while  the 
Lamp  shone  on  it,  she  asserted  more  than  once,  that  if  things  went 
on  thus,  before  midnight  this  noble  member  would  have  utterly 
yanished. 

The  Man  with  the  Lamp  had  listened  attentively  to  the  conver- 
sation of  the  Lights  ; and  was  gratified  that  Lily  had  been  cheered, 
in  some  measure,  and  amused  by  it.  And,  in  truth,  midnight  had 
arrived  they  knew  not  how.  The  old  Man  looked  to  the  stars,  and 
then  began  speaking  : “We  are  assembled  at  the  propitious  hour  ; 
let  each  perform  his  task,  let  each  do  his  duty  ; and  a universal 
happiness  will  swallow-up  our  individual  sorrows,  as  a universal 
grief  consumes  individual  joys.” 

At  these  words  arose  a wondrous  hubbub ; 2 for  all  the  persons 
in  the  party  spoke  aloud,  each  for  himself,  declaring  what  they 
had  to  do  ; only  the  three  maids  were  silent ; one  of  them  had 
fallen  asleep  beside  the  harp,  another  near  the  parasol,  the  third 
by  the  stool ; and  you  could  not  blame  them  much,  for  it  was  late. 
The  Fiery  Youths,  after  some  passing  compliments  which  they  de- 
voted to  the  waiting-maids,  had  turned  their  sole  attention  to  the 
Princess,  as  alone  worthy  of  exclusive  homage. 

“ Take  the  mirror,”  said  the  Man  to  the  Hawk  ; “ and  with  the 
first  sunbeam  illuminate  the  three  sleepers,  and  awake  them,  with 
light  reflected  from  above.” 

The  Snake  now  began  to  move  ; she  loosened  her  circle,  and 
rolled  slowly,  in  large  rings  forward  to  the  River.  The  two  Will- 
o’-wisps  followed  with  a solemn  air  : you  would  have  taken  them 
for  the  most  serious  Flames  in  Nature.  The  old  Woman  and  her 
husband  seized  the  Basket,  whose  mild  light  they  had  scarcely 
observed  till  now ; they  lifted  it  at  both  sides,  and  it  grew  still 
larger  and  more  luminous  ; they  lifted  the  body  of  the  Youth  into 

1 Have  not  your  march -of-intellect  Literators  always  expressed  themselves 
particularly  ravished  with  any  glitter  from  the  veil,  of  Hope ; with  ‘progress 
of  the  species,’  and  the  like  ? — D.  T. 

2 Too  true  : dost  thou  not  hear  it,  reader  ? In  this  our  Revolutionary 
‘ twelfth  hour  of  the  night,’  all  persons  speak  aloud  (some  of  them  by  cannon 
and  drums  !),  ‘ declaring  what  they  have  to  do  ; ’ and  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity 
(after  a few  passing  compliments  from  the  Belles-Lettres  Department),  thou 
seest,  have  fallen  asleep! — D.  T. 


144 


APPENDIX. 


it,  laying  the  Canary  bird  upon  his  breast ; the  Basket  rose  into 
the  air  and  hovered  above  the  old  "Woman's  head,  and  she  followed 
the  Will-o’-wisps  on  foot.  The  fair  Lily  took  Mops  on  her  arm, 
and  followed  the  Woman  ; the  Man  with  the  Lamp  concluded  the 
procession  ; and  the  scene  was  curiously  illuminated  by  these 
many  lights. 

But  it  was  with  no  small  wonder  that  the  party  saw,  when  they 
approached  the  Biver,  a glorious  arch  mount  over  it,  by  which  the 
helpful  Snake  was  affording  them  a glittering  path.  If  by  day 
they  had  admired  the  beautiful  transparent  precious  stones,  of 
which  the  Bridge  seemed  formed  ; by  night  they  were  astonished 
at  its  gleaming  brilliancy.  On  the  upper  side  the  clear  circle 
marked  itself  sharp  against  the  dark  sky,  but  below,  vivid  beams 
were  darting  to  the  centre,  and  exhibiting  the  airy  firmness  of  the 
edifice.  The  procession  slowly  moved  across  it;  and  the  Ferry- 
man, who  saw  it  from  his  hut  afar  off,  considered  with  astonish- 
ment the  gleaming  circle,  and  the  strange  lights  which  were  pass- 
ing over  it.1 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  other  shore,  than  the  arch  began, 
in  its  usual  way,  to  sway  up  and  down,  and  with  a wavy  motion  to 
approach  the  water.  The  Snake  then  came  on  land,  the  Basket 
placed  itself  upon  the  ground,  and  the  Snake  again  drew  her  cir- 
cle round  it.  The  old  Man  stooped  towards  her,  and  said  : “ What 
hast  thou  resolved  on  ? ” 

“To  sacrifice  myself  rather  than  be  sacrificed,”  replied  the 
Snake  ; “ promise  me  that  thou  wilt  leave  no  stone  on  shore.” 

The  old  Man  promised ; then  addressing  Lily : “ Touch  the 
Snake,”  said  he,  “ with  thy  left  hand,  and  thy  lover  with  thy  right.” 
Lily  knelt,  and  touched  the  Snake  and  the  Prince's  body.  The 
latter  in  the  instant  seemed  to  come  to  life ; he  moved  in  the 
Basket,  nay  he  raised  himself  into  a sitting  posture ; Lily  was 
about  to  clasp  him  ; but  the  old  Man  held  her  back,  and  himself 
assisted  the  Youth  to  rise,  and  led  him  forth  from  the  Basket  and 
the  circle. 

The  Prince  was  standing  ; the  Canary-bird  was  fluttering  on  his 
shoulder  ; there  was  life  again  in  both  of  them,  but  the  spirit  had 
not  yet  returned  ; the  fair  youth’s  eyes  were  open,  yet  he  did  not 
see,  at  least  he  seemed  to  look  on  all  without  participation. 
Scarcely  had  their  admiration  of  this  incident  a little  calmed, 

1 Well  he  might,  worthy  old  man  ; as  Pope  Pius,  for  example,  did,  when  he 
lived  in  Fontainebleau  ! — D.  T.  As  our  Bishops,  when  voting  for  the  Re- 
form Bill  ?~0.  Y. 


APPENDIX. 


145 


when  they  observed  how  strangely  it  had  fared  in  the  mean  while 
with  the  Snake.  Her  fair  taper  body  had  crumbled  into  thousands 
and  thousands  of  shining  jewels  : the  old  "Woman  reaching  at  her 
Basket  had  chanced  to  come  against  the  circle ; and  of  the  shape 
or  structure  of  the  Snake  there  was  now  nothing  to  be  seen,  only 
a bright  ring  of  luminous  jewels  was  lying  in  the  grass.1 

The  old  Man  forthwith  set  himself  to  gather  the  stones  into  the 
Basket ; a task  in  which  his  wife  assisted  him.  They  next  carried 
the  Basket  to  an  elevated  point  on  the  bank ; and  here  the  man 
threw  its  whole  lading,  not  without  contradiction  from  the  fail- 
one  and  his  uife,  who  would  gladly  have  retained  some  part  of  it, 
down  into  the  Biver.  Like  gleaming  twinkling  stars  the  stones 
floated  down  with  the  waves  ; and  you  could  not  say  whether  they 
lost  themselves  in  the  distance,  or  sank  to  the  bottom. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  he  with  the  Lamp,  in  a respectful  tone  to 
the  Lights,  “ I will  now  show  you  the  way,  and  open  you  the  pas- 
sage ; but  you  will  do  us  an  essential  service,  if  you  please  to  un- 
bolt the  door,  by  which  the  Sanctuary  must  be  entered  at  jjresent, 
and  which  none  but  you  can  unfasten.” 

The  Lights  made  a stately  bow  of  assent,  and  kept  their  place. 
The  old  Man  of  the  Lamp  went  foremost  into  the  rock,  which 
opened  at  his  presence  ; the  Youth  followed  him,  as  if  mechani- 
cally ; silent  and  uncertain,  Lily  kept  at  some  distance  from  him  ; 
the  old  Woman  would  not  be  left,  and  stretched-out  her  hand  that 
the  light  of  her  husband’s  Lamp  might  still  fall  upon  it.  The 
rear  was  closed  by  the  two  Will-o’-wisps,  who  bent  the  peaks  of 
their  flames  towards  one  another,  and  appeared  to  be  engaged  in 
conversation. 

They  had  not  gone  far  till  the  procession  halted  in  front  of  a 
large  brazen  door,  the  leaves  of  which  were  bolted  with  a golden 
lock.  The  Man  now  called  upon  the  Lights  to  advance ; who  re- 
quired small  entreaty,  and  rvith  their  pointed  flames,  soon  ate 
both  bar  and  lock. 

The  brass  gave  a loud  clang,  as  the  doors  sprang  suddenly  asun- 
der ; and  the  stately  figures  of  the  Kings  appeared  within  the 
Sanctuary,  illuminated  by  the  entering  Lights.  All  bowed  before 
these  dread  sovereigns,  especially  the  Flames  made  a profusion  of 
the  daintiest  reverences. 

1 So  ! Your  Logics,  Mechanical  Philosophies,  Politics,  Sciences,  your  whole 
modern  System  of  Thought,  is  to  decease  ; and  old  Endeavour,  ‘ grasping 
at  her  basket,’  shall  ‘come  against’  the  inanimate  remains,  and  ‘only  a 
bright  ring  of  luminous  jewels ’ shall  be  left  there!  Mark  well,  however, 
what  next  becomes  of  it. — D.  T. 

10 


146 


APPENDIX. 


After  a pause,  the  gold  King  asked  : 1 ! Whence  come  ye  ? ” 
“From  the  world,”  said  the  old  Man. — “ Whither  go  ye  ?”  said  the 
silver  King.  “ Into  the  world,”  replied  the  Man. — “What  would 
ye  with  us  ?”  cried  the  brazen  King.  “Accompany  you,”  replied 
the  Man. 

The  composite  King  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  gold  one  ad- 
dressed the  Lights,  who  had  got  too  near  him  : “ Take  yourselves 
away  from  me,  my  metal  was  not  made  for  you.”  Thereupon  they 
turned  to  the  silver  King,  and  clasped  themselves  about  him  ; and 
his  robe  glittered  beautifully  in  their  yellow  brightness.  ‘ 1 You 
are  welcome,”  said  he,  “ but  I cannot  feed  you  ; satisfy  yourselves 
elsewhere,  and  bring  me  your  light.”  They  removed ; and  glid- 
ing past  the  brazen  King,  who  did  not  seem  to  notice  them,  they 
fixed  on  the  compounded  King.  “ Who  will  govern  the  world  ? ” 
cried  he,  with  a broken  voice.  “He  who  stands  upon  his  feet,” 
replied  the  old  Man. — “I  am  he,”  said  the  mixed  King.  “We 
shall  see,”  replied  the  Man ; “ for  the  time  is  at  hand.” 

The  fair  Lily  fell  upon  the  old  Man’s  neck,  and  kissed  him  cor- 
dially. “Holy  Sage!”  cried  she,  “a  thousand  times  I thank 
thee;  for  I hear  that  fateful  word  the  third  time.”  She  had 
scarcely  spoken,  when  she  clasped  the  old  Man  still  faster ; for  the 
ground  began  to  move  beneath  them ; the  Youth  and  the  old 
Woman  also  held  by  one  another ; the  Lights  alone  did  not  re- 
gard it. 

You  could  feel  plainly  that  the  whole  Temple  was  in  motion ; as 
a ship  that  softly  glides  away  from  the  harbour,  when  her  anchors 
are  lifted ; the  depths  of  the  Earth  seemed  to  open  for  the  Build- 
ing as  it  went  along.  It  struck  on  nothing ; no  rock  came  in  its 
way. 

For  a few  instants,  a small  rain  seemed  to  drizzle  from  the 
opening  of  the  dome  ; the  old  Man  held  the  fair  Lily  fast,  and  said 
to  her  : “ We  are  now  beneath  the  River  ; we  shall  soon  be  at  the 
mark.  ” Erelong  they  thought  the  Temple  made  a halt ; but  they 
were  in  an  error;  it  was  mounting  upwards. 

And  now  a strange  uproar  rose  above  their  heads.  Planks  and 
beams  in  disordered  combination  now  came  pressing  and  crashing 
in  at  the  opening  of  the  dome.  Lily  and  the  Woman  started  to  a 
side ; the  Man  with  the  Lamp  laid  hold  of  the  Youth,  and  kept 
standing  still.  The  little  cottage  of  the  Ferryman,  for  it  was  this 
which  the  Temple  in  ascending  had  severed  from  the  ground  and 
carried  up  with  it,  sank  gradually  down,  and  covered  the  old  Man 
and  the  Youth. 


APPENDIX. 


147 


The  women  screamed  aloud,  and  the  Temple  shook,  like  a ship 
running  unexioectedly  aground.  In  sorrowful  perplexity,  the  Prin- 
cess and  her  old  attendant  wandered  round  the  cottage  in  the 
dawn  ; the  door  was  bolted,  and  to  their  knocking  no  one  an- 
swered. They  knocked  more  loudly,  and  were  not  a little  struck, 
when  at  length  the  wood  began  to  ring.  By  virtue  of  the  Lamp 
locked  up  in  it,  the  hut  had  been  converted  from  the  inside  to  the 
outside  into  solid  silver.  Erelong  too  its  form  changed  ; for  the 
noble  metal  shook  aside  the  accidental  shape  of  planks,  posts,  and 
beams,  and  stretched  itself  out  into  a noble  case  of  beaten  orna- 
mented workmanship.  Thus  a fair  little  temple  stood  erected  in 
the  middle  of  the  large  one  ; or  if  you  will,  an  Altar  worthy  of  the 
Temple.1 

By  a staircase  which  ascended  from  within,  the  noble  Youth 
now  mounted  aloft,  lighted  by  the  old  Man  with  the  Lamp  ; and, 
as  it  seemed,  supported  by  another,  who  advanced  in  a white  short 
robe,  with  a silver  rudder  in  his  hand ; and  was  soon  recognised 
as  the  Perryman,  the  former  possessor  of  the  cottage. 

The  fair  Lily  mounted  the  outer  steps,  which  led  from  the  floor 
of  the  Temple  to  the  Altar ; but  she  was  still  obliged  to  keep  her- 
self apart  from  her  Lover.  The  old  Woman,  whose  hand  in  the 
absence  of  the  Lamp  had  grown  still  smaller,  cried : “ Am  1 then 
to  be  unhappy  after  all  ? Among  so  many  miracles,  can  there  be 
nothing  done  to  save  my  hand?”  Her  husband  pointed  to  the 
open  door,  and  said  to  her:  “See,  the  day  is  breaking;  haste, 
bathe  thyself  in  the  Biver.” — “ What  an  advice!”  cried  she;  “it 
will  make  me  all  black ; it  will  make  me  vanish  altogether ; for 
my  debt  is  not  yet  paid.” — “ Go,”  said  the  Man,  “ and  do  as  I ad- 
rise  thee  ; all  debts  are  now  paid.” 

The  old  Woman  hastened  away ; and  at  that  moment  appeared 
the  rising  sun  upon  the  rim  of  the  dome.  The  old  Man  stept  be- 
tween the  Virgin  and  the  Youth,  and  cried  with  a loud  voice : 
“ There  are  three  which  have  rale  on  Earth ; Wisdom,  Appear- 
ance and  Strength.”  At  the  first  .word,  the  gold  King  rose;  at 
the  second,  the  silver  one  ; and  at  the  third,  the  brass  King  slowly 
rose,  while  the  mixed  King  on  a sudden  very  awkwardly  plumped 
down.2 

1 Good  ! The  old  Church,  shaken  down  ‘ in  disordered  combination,’  is  ad- 
mitted in  this  way,  into  the  new  perennial  Temple  of  the  Future  ; and, 
clarified  into  enduring  silver  by  the  Lamp,  becomes  an  Altar  worthy  to  stand 
there.  The  Ferryman  too  is  not  forgotten. — D.  T. 

2 Dost  thou  note  this,  O reader  ; and  look  back  with  new  clearness  on 
former  things?  A gold  King,  a silver  and  a brazen  King  ; Wisdom,  dignified 


■ 148 


APPENDIX. 


Whoever  noticed  him  could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing,  solemn 
as  the  moment  was ; for  he  was  not  sitting,  he  was  not  lying,  he 
was  not  leaning,  but  shapelessly  sunk  together.1 

The  Lights,2  who  till  now  had  been  employed  upon  him,  drew  to 
a side ; they  appeared,  although  pale  in  the  morning  radiance,  yet 
once  more  well-fed,  and  in  good  burning  condition;  with  their 
peaked  tongues,  they  had  dexterously  licked-out  the  gold  veins 
of  the  colossal  figure  to  its  very  heart.  The  irregular  vacuities 
which  this  occasioned  had  continued  empty  for  a time,  and  the  fig- 
ure had  maintained  its  standing  posture.  But  when  at  last  the 
very  tenderest  filaments  were  eaten  out,  the  image  crashed  sud- 
denly together ; and  that,  alas,  in  the  very  parts  which  continue 
unaltered  when  one  sits  down  ; whereas  the  limbs,  which  should 
have  bent,  sprawled  themselves  out  unbowed  and  stiff.  Whoever 
could  not  laugh  was  obliged  to  turn  away  his  eyes  ; this  miserable 
shape  and  no-shape  was  offensive  to  behold. 

The  Man  with  the  Lamp  now  led  the  handsome  Youth,  who  still 
kept  gazing  vacantly  before  him,  down  from  the  Altar,  and  straight 
to  the  brazen  King.  At  the  feet  of  this  mighty  Potentate  lay  a 
sword  in  a brazen  sheath.  The  young  man  girt  it  round  him. 
“ The  sword  on  the  left,  the  right  free ! ” cried  the  brazen  voice. 
They  next  proceeded  to  the  silver  King ; he  bent  his  sceptre  to 
the  Youth  the  latter  seized  it  with  his  left  hand,  and  the  King  in 
a pleasing  voice  said  : “ Feed  the  sheep ! ” On  tinning  to  the 
golden  King,  he  stooped  with  gestures  of  paternal  blessing,  and 
pressing  his-  oaken  garland  on  the  young  man’s  head,  said : 
“ Understand  what  is  highest ! ” 

During  this  progress,  the  old  Man  had  carefully  observed  the 
Prince.  After  girding-on  the  sword,  his  breast  swelled,  his  arms 
waved,  and  his  feet  trod  firmer  ; when  he  took  the  sceptre  in  his 
hand,  his  strength  appeared  to  soften,  and  by  an  unspeakable 
charm  to  become  still  more  subduing ; but  as  the  oaken  garland 
came  to  deck  his  hair,  his  features  kindled,  his  eyes  gleamed  with 
inexpressible  spirit,  and  the  first  word  of  his  mouth  was  “ Lily  ! ” 

“Dearest  Lily  ! ” cried  he,  hastening  up  the  silver  stairs  to  her, 

Appearance,  Strength;  these  three  harmoniously  united  bear  rule  ; dishar- 
moniously cobbled  together  in  sham  union  (as  iu  the  foolish  composite  King 
of  our  foolish  ‘ transition  era  ’),  they,  once  the  gold  (or  wisdom)  is  all  out  of 
them,  ‘very  awkwardly  plump  down.’ — D.  T. 

1 As,  for  example,  does  not  Charles  X.  (one  of  the  poor  fractional  compos- 
ite Realities  emblemed  herein)  rest,  even  now,  ‘ shapelessly  enough  sunk  to- 
gether.’ at  Holyrood,  in  the  city  of  Edinburgh  ? — D.  T. 

2 March-of-intellect  Lights  were  well  capable  of  such  a thing. — D.  T. 


APPENDIX. 


149 


for  she  had  viewed  his  progress  from  the  pinnacle  of  the  Altar , 
“Dearest  Lily!  what  more  precious  can  a man,  equipt  with  all, 
desire  for  himself  than  innocence  and  the  still  affection  which  thy 
bosom  brings  me  ? O my  friend  ! ” continued  he,  turning  to  the 
old  Man,  and  looking  at  the  three  statues  ; “ glorious  and  secure 
is  the  kingdom  of  our  fathers  ; but  thou  hast  forgotten  the  fourth 
power,  which  rules  the  world,  earlier,  more  universally,  more  cer- 
tainly, the  power  of  Love.”  With  these  words,  he  fell  upon  the 
lovely  maiden’s  neck  ; she  had  cast  away  her  veil,  and  her  cheeks 
were  tinged  with  the  fairest,  most  imperishable  red. 

Here  the  old  Man  said  with  a smile  : “ Love  does  not  rule  ; but 
it  trains,1  and  that  is  more.” 

Amid  this  solemnity,  this  happiness  and  rapture,  no  one  had  ob- 
served that  it  was  now  broad  day ; and  all  at  once,  on  looking 
through  the  open  portal,  a crowd  of  altogether  unexpected  objects 
met  the  eye.  A large  space  surrounded  with  pillars  formed  the 
fore-court,  at  the  end  of  which  was  seen  a broad  and  stately  Bridge 
stretching  with  many  arches  across  the  River.  It  was  furnished, 
on  both  sides,  with  commodious  and  magnificent  colonnades  for 
foot-travellers,  many  thousands  of  whom  were  already  there,  busily 
passing  this  way  or  that.  The  broad  pavement  in  the  centre  was 
thronged  with  herds  and  mules,  with  horsemen  and  carriages,  flow- 
ing like  two  streams,  on  their  several  sides,  and  neither  interrupt- 
ing the  other.  All  admired  the  splendour  and  convenience  of  the 
structure  ; and  the  new  King  and  his  Spouse  were  delighted  with 
the  motion  and  activity  of  this  great  people,  as  they  were  already 
happy  in  their  own  mutual  love. 

“ Remember  the  Snake  in  honour,”  said  the  Man  with  the  Lamp, 
“ thou  owest  her  thy  life  ; thy  people  owe  her  the  Bridge,  by  -which 
these  neighbouring  banks  are  now  animated  and  combined  into 
one  land.  Those  swimming  and  shining  jewels,  the  remains  of 
her  sacrificed  body,  are  the  piers  of  this  royal  bridge  ; upon  these 
she  has  built  and  will  maintain  herself.”  2 

The  party  were  about  to  ask  some  explanation  of  this  strange 
mystery,  when  there  entered  four  lovely  maidens  at  the  portal  of 
the  Temple.  By  the  Harp,  the  Parasol,  and  the  Folding-stool,  it 
was  not  difficult  to  recognise  the  waiting  maids  of  Lily  ; but  the 
fourth,  more  beautiful  than  any  of  the  rest,  was  an  unknown  fair 

1 It  fashions  ( bildet ),  or  educates. — O.  Y. 

2 Honour  to  her  indeed  ! The  Mechanical  Philosophy,  though  dead,  has  not 
died  and  lived  in  vain  ; but  her  works  are  there  : ‘ upon  these  she  ’ (Thought, 
newborn,  in  glorified  shape)  ‘ has  built  herself  and  will  maintain  herself ; ’ 
and  the  Natural  and  Supernatural  shall  henceforth,  thereby,  be  one. — D.  T. 


150 


APPENDIX. 


one,  and  in  sisterly  sportfulness  slie  hastened  with  them  through 
the  Temple,  and  mounted  the  steps  of  the  Altar. 1 

“Wilt  thou  have  better  trust  in  me  another  time,  good  wife?” 
said  the  Man  with  the  Lamp  to  the  fair  one  : “Well  for  thee,  and 
every  living  thing  that  bathes  this  morning  in  the  Elver ! ” 

The  renewed  and  beautified  old  Woman,  of  whose  former  shape 
no  trace  remained,  embraced  with  young  eager  arms  the  Man  with 
the  Lamp,  who  kindly  received  her  caresses.  “ If  I am  too  old 
for  thee,”  said  he,  smiling,  “ thou  mayest  choose  another  husband 
to-day  ; from  this  hour  no  marriage  is  of  force,  which  is  not  con- 
tracted anew.” 

“Dost  thou  not  know,  then,”  answered  she,  “that  thou  too  art 
grown  younger  ? “ It  delights  me  if  to  thy  young  eyes  I seem  a 

handsome  youth  : I take  thy  hand  anew,  and  am  well  content  to 
live  with  thee  another  thousand  years.”  2 

The  Queen  welcomed  her  new  friend,  and  went  down  with  her 
into  the  interior  of  the  Altar,  while  the  King  stood  between  his 
two  men,  looking  towards  the  Bridge  and  attentively  contemplating 
the  busy  tumult  of  the  people. 

But  his  satisfaction  did  not  last ; for  erelong  he  saw  an  object 
which  excited  his  displeasure.  The  great  Giant,  who  appeared 
not  yet  to  have  awoke  completely  from  his  morning  sleep,  came 
stumbling  along  'the  Bridge,  producing  great  confusion  all  around 
him.  As  usual,  he  had  risen  stupefied  with  sleep,  and  had  meant 
to  bathe  in  the  well-known  bay  of  the  Eiver  ; instead  of  which  he 
found  firm  land,  and  plunged  upon  the  broad  pavement  of  the 
Bridge.  Yet  although  he  reeled  into  the  midst  of  men  and  cattle 
in  the  clumsiest  way,  his  presence,  wondered  at  by  all,  was  felt  by 
none ; but  as  the  sunshine  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  raised  his 
hands  to  rub  them,  the  shadows  of  his  monstrous  fists  moved  to 
and  fro  behind  him  with  such  force  and  awkwardness,  that  men 
and  beasts  were  heaped  together  in  great  masses,  were  hurt  by 
such  rude  contact,  and  in  danger  of  being  pitched  into  the  Eiver.3 

The  King,  as  he  saw  this  mischief,  grasped  with  an  involuntary 
movement  at  his  sword ; but  he  bethought  himself,  and  looked 

1 Mark  what  comes  of  bathing  in  the  TlME-River,  at  the  entrance  of  a New 
Era  ! — D.  T. 

2 And  so  Reason  and  Endeavour  being  once  more  married,  and  in  the 
honeymoon,  need  we  wish  them  joy  ? — D.  T. 

3 Thou  rememberest  the  Catholic  Relief  Bill ; witnesseth  the  Irish  Educa- 
tion Bill  ? Hast  heard,  five  hundred  times,  that  the  1 Church  ’ was  * in  danger  ’ 
and  now  at  length  believest  it  ? — D.  T.  Is  D.  T.  of  the  Fourth  Estate,  and 
Popish  Infidel,  then  ? — O.  Y. 


APPENDIX. 


151 


calmly  at  his  sceptre,  then  at  the  Lamp  and  the  Rudder  of  his 
attendants.  “ I guess  thy  thoughts,”  said  the  Man  with  the  Lamp; 
“ but  we  and  our  gifts  are  powerless  against  this  powerless  mon- 
ster. Be  calm ! He  is  doing  hurt  for  the  last  time,  and  happily 
his  shadow  is  not  turned  to  us.” 

Meanwhile  the  Giant  was  approaching  nearer  ; in  astonishment 
at  -what  he  saw  with  open  eyes,  he  had  dropt  his  hands  ; he  was 
now  doing  no  injury,  and  came  staring  and  agape  into  the  fore- 
court. 

He  was  walking  straight  to  the  door  of  the  Temple,  when  all  at 
once  in  the  middle  of  the  court,  he  halted,  and  was  fixed  to  the 
ground.  He  stood  there  like  a strong  colossal  statue,  of  reddish 
glittering  stone,  and  his  shadow  pointed  out  the  hours, 1 2 which 
were  marked  in  a circle  on  the  floor  around  him,  not  in  numbers, 
but  in  noble  and  expressive  emblems. 

Much  delighted  was  the  King  to  see  the  monster’s  shadow  turned 
to  some  useful  purpose  ; much  astonished  was  the  Queen,  who,  on 
mounting  from  within  the  Altar,  decked  in  royal  pomp,  with  her 
virgins,  first  noticed  the  huge  figure,  which  almost  closed  the  pros- 
pect from  the  Temple  to  the  Bridge. 

Meanwhile  the  people  had  crowded  after  the  Giant,  as  he  ceased 
to  move  ; they  were  walking  round  him,  wondering  at  his  meta- 
morphosis. From  him  they  turned  to  the  Temple,  which  they  now 
first  appeared  to  notice,'-’  and  pressed  towards  the  door. 

At  this  instant  the  Hawk  with  the  mirror  soared  aloft  above  the 
dome;  caught  the  light  of  the  Sun,  and  reflected  it  upon  the 
group  which  was  standing  on  the  Altar.  The  King,  the  Queen, 
and  their  attendants,  in  the  dusky  concave  of  the  Temple,  seemed 
illuminated  by  a heavenly  splendour,  and  the  people  fell  upon 
their  faces.  "When  the  crowd  had  recovered  and  risen,  the  King 
with  his  followers  had  descended  into  the  Altar,  to  proceed  by 
secret  passages  into  his  palace ; and  the  multitude  dispersed 
about  the  Temple  to  content  their  curiosity.  The  three  Kings 
that  were  standing  erect  theyr  viewed  with  astonishment  and  rev- 
erence ; but  the  more  eager  were  they  to  discover  what  mass  it 
could  be  that  was  hid  behind  the  hangings,  in  the  fourth  niche  ; 
for  by  some  hand  or  another,  charitable  decency  had  spread  over 
the  resting-place  of  the  fallen  King  a gorgeous  curtain,  which  no 
eye  can  penetrate,  and  no  hand  may  dare  to  draw  aside. 


1 Bravo  !^D.  T. 

2 Now  first ; when  the  beast  of  a SUPERSTITION-Giant  has  got  his  quietus. 
Right !— D.  T. 


152 


APPENDIX. 


The  people  would  have  found  no  end  to  their  gazing  and  their 
admiration,  and  the  crowding  multitude  would  have  even  suffo- 
cated one  another  in  the  Temple,  had  not  their  attention  been 
again  attracted  to  the  open  space. 

Unexpectedly  some  gold-pieces,  as  if  falling  from  the  air,  came 
tinkling  down  upon  the  marble  flags ; the  nearest  passers-by 
rushed  thither  to  pick  them  up ; the  wonder  was  repeated  several 
times,  now  here,  now  there.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  that  the 
shower  proceeded  from  our  two  retiring  Flames,  who  wished  to 
have  a little  sport  here  once  more,  and  were  thus  gaily  spending, 
ere  they  went  away,  the  gold  which  they  had  licked  from  the 
members  of  the  sunken  King.  The  people  still  ran  eagerly  about, 
pressing  and  pulling  one  another,  even  when  the  gold  had  ceased 
to  fall.  At  length  they  gradually  dispersed,  and  went  their  way ; 
and  to  the  present  hour  the  Bridge  is  swarming  with  travellers, 
and  the  Temple  is  the  most  frequented  on  the  whole  Earth.1 

1 It  is  the  Temple  of  the  whole  civilised  Barth.  Finally,  may  I take  leave 
to  consider  this  Mdhrchen  as  the  deepest  Poem  of  its  sort  in  existence ; as 
the  only  true  Prophecy  emitted  for  who  knows  how  many  centuries  ? — D.  T. 
Certainly;  England  is  a free  country. — O.  Y. 


CRITICAL  ART)  MISCELLANEOUS 


COLLECTED  AND  REPUBLISHED 


BY 

THOMAS  CAELYLE 


VOL  7 ’AIRE.  —NO  YALIS 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER, 
1885. 


TROWS 


PRINTING  AND  G00K6INDING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


VOLTAIRE. 


VOLTAIRE. 


Resistless  and  boundless  power  of  true  Literature.  Every  Life  a 
well-spring,  whose  stream  flows  onward  to  Eternity.  Present  aspect  of 
a man  often  strangely  contrasted  with  his  future  influence  ; Moses  ; 
Mahomet  ; the  early  Christians  ; Tamerlane  and  Faust  of  Mentz.  How 
noiseless  is  Thought ! (p.  5). — Voltaire’s  European  reputation.  The 
biography  of  such  a man  cannot  be  unimportant.  Differences  of  opin- 
ion : Necessity  for  mutual  tolerance.  Voltaire’s  character  : Adroitness, 
and  multifarious  success  : Keen  sense  of  rectitude  ; and  fellow-feeling 
for  human  suffering.  (9). — Not  a ‘ great  character ; ’ essentially  a Mocker. 
Ridicule  not' the  test  of  truth.  The  glory  of  knowing  and  believing,  all 
but  a stranger  to  him  ; only  with  that  of  questioning  and  qualifying  is 
lie  familiar.  His  tragicomical  explosions,  more  like  a bundle  ot  rockets 
than  a volcano  Character  of  the  age  into  which  he  was  cast.  What  is 
implied  by  a Lover  of  Wisdom  Voltaire  loved  Truth,  but  chief! y of  the 
triumphant  sort.  His  love  of  fame:  ‘Necessity’  of  lying:  Can  either 
fly  or  crawl,  as  the  occasion  demands.  (20). — His  view  of  the  world 
a cool  gently  scornful,  altogether  prosaic  one.  His  last  ill-omened 
visit  to  Frederick  the  Great.  His  women,  an  embittered  and  embitter- 
ing set  of  wantons  from  the  earliest  to  the  last  : Widow  Denis  ; the 
Marquise  du  Ch'telet.  The  greatest  of  all  Persifleurs.  (38). — His  last  and 
most  striking  appearance  in  society  : The  loudest  and  showiest  homage 
ever  paid  to  Literature.  The  last  scene  of  all.  (44).— Intellectual  gifts: 
His  power  of  rapid,  perspicuous  Arrangement : His  Wit,  a mere  logical 
pleasantry  ; scarcely  a twinkle  of  Humour  in  the  whole  of  his  number- 
less sallies.  Poetry  of  the  toilette  : Criticisms  of  Shakespeare, — Vpl- 
taire,  and  Frederick  the  Great : Let  justice  be  shown  even  to  French 
poetry.  (51). — Voltaire  chiefly  conspicuous  as  a vehement  opponent  of 
the  Christian  Faith  : Shallowness  of  his  deepest  insight : The  Worship 
of  Sorrow,  godlike  Doctrine  of  Humility,  all  unknown  to  him.  The 
Christian  Religion  itself  can  never  die.  Voltaire’s  whole  character  plain 
enough  : A light,  careless,  courteous  Man  of  the  World : His  chief 
merits  belong  to  Nature  and  himself  ; his  chief  faults  are  of  his  time 
and  country.  The  strange  ungodly  Age  of  Louis  XV.  : Honour  ; En- 
lightened Self-interest ; Force  of  Public  Opinion.  Novalis,  on  the 
worthlessness  and  worth  of  French  Philosophy.  The  death-slab  of 
modern  Superstition.  The  burning  of  a little  straw  may  hide  the  Stars  ; 
but  they  are  still  there,  and  will  again  be  seen.  (62). 


VOLTAIRE.1 


[1829.] 

Could  ambition  always  choose  its  own  path,  and  were  will 
in  human  undertakings  synonymous  with  faculty,  all  truly 
ambitious  meu  would  be  men  of  letters.  Certainly,  if  we 
examine  that  love  of  power,  which  enters  so  largely  into  most 
practical  calculations,  nay  which  our  Utilitarian  friends  have 
recognised  as  the  sole  end  and  origin,  both  motive  and  re- 
ward, of  all  earthly  enterprises,  animating  alike  the  philan- 
thropist, the  conqueror,  the  money-changer  and  the  mission- 
ary, we  shall  find  that  all  other  arenas  of  ambition,  compared 
with  this  rich  and  boundless  one  of  Literature,  meaning 
thereby  whatever  respects  the  promulgation  of  Thought,  are 
poor,  limited  and  ineffectual.  For  dull,  unreflective,  merely 
instinctive  as  the  ordinary  man  may  seem,  he  has  neverthe- 
less, as  a quite  indispensable  appendage,  a head  that  in  some 
degree  considers  and  computes  ; a lamp  or  rushlight  of  un- 
derstanding has  been  given  him,  which,  through  whatever 
dim,  besmoked  and  strangely  diffractive  media  it  may  shine, 
is  the  ultimate  guiding  light  of  his  whole  path  : and  here  as 
wrell  as  there,  now  as  at  all  times  in  man’s  history,  Opinion 
rules  the  world. 

Curious  it  is,  moreover,  to  consider  in  this  respect,  how 

1 Foreign  Review^,  No.  6. — Memoires  sur  Voltaire , etsurses  Outrages, 
par  Longchamp  et  Wagniere,  ses  Secretaires ; suivis  de  divers  Ecrits 
inedits  de  la  Marquise  du  Chdtelet,  du  President  [Z Jenav.lt,  &c. , tons 
relatifs  a Voltaire.  (Memoirs  concerning  Voltaire  and  his  Works,  by 
Longchamp  and  Wagniere,  his  Secretaries ; with  various  unpublished 
Tieces  by  the  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  &c.,  all  relating  to  Voltaire.)  2 
tomes.  Paris,  1826. 


6 


VOLTAIRE. 


different  appearance  is  from  reality,  and  under  what  singular 
shape  and  circumstances  the  truly  most  important  man  of 
any  given  period  might  he  found.  Could  some  Asmodeus, 
by  simply  waving  his  arm,  open  asunder  the  meaning  of  the 
Present,  even  so  far  as  the  Future  will  disclose  it,  what  a 
much  more  marvellous  sight  should  we  have,  than  that  mere 
bodily  one  through  the  roofs  of  Madrid  ! For  we  know  not 
what  we  are,  any  more  than  what  wTe  shall  be.  It  is  a high, 
solemn,  almost  awful  thought  for  every  individual  man,  that 
his  earthly  influence,  which  has  had  a commencement,  will 
never  through  all  ages,  were  he  the  very  meanest  of  us,  have 
an  end  ! What  is  done  is  done  ; has  already  blended  itself 
with  the  boundless,  ever-living,  ever-working  Universe,  and 
will  also  work  there,  for  good  or  for  evil,  openly  or  secretly, 
throughout  all  time.  But  the  life  of  every  man  is  as  the 
well-spring  of  a stream,  whose  small  beginnings  are  indeed 
plain  to  all,  but  whose  ulterior  course  and  destination,  as  it 
winds  through  the  expanses  of  infinite  years,  only  the  Om- 
niscient can  discern.  Will  it  mingle  with  neighbouring  rivu- 
lets, as  a tributary  ; or  receive  them  as  their  sovereign  ? Is 
it  to  be  a nameless  brook,  and  will  its  tiny  waters,  among 
millions  of  other  brooks  and  rills,  increase  the  current  of 
some  world-river  ? Or  is  it  to  be  itself  a Kkene  or  Danaw, 
whose  goings-forth  are  to  the  uttermost  lands,  its  flood  an 
everlasting  boundary-line  on  the  globe  itself,  the  bulwark  and 
highway  of  whole  kingdoms  and  continents  ? We  know  not  ; 
only  in  either  case,  we  know,  its  path  is  to  the  great  ocean  ; 
its  waters,  were  they  but  a handful,  are  here,  and  cannot  be 
annihilated  or  permanently  held  back. 

As  little  can  we  prognosticate,  with  any  certainty,  the 
future  influences  from  the  present  aspects  of  an  individual. 
How  many  Demagogues,  Croesuses,  Conquerors  fill  their  own 
age  with  joy  or  terror,  with  a tumult  that  promises  to  be 
perennial  ; and  in  the  next  age  die  away  into  insignificance 
and  oblivion  ! These  are  the  forests  of  gourds,  that  overtop 
the  infant  cedars  and  aloe-trees,  but,  like  the  Prophet's  gourd, 
wither  on  the  third  day.  What  was  it  to  the  Pharaohs  of 
Egypt,  in  that  old  era,  if  Jethro  the  Midianitish  priest  and 


VOLTAIRE. 


7 


grazier  accepted  the  Hebrew  outlaw  as  his  herdsman  ? Yet 
the  Pharaohs,  with  all  their  chariots  of  war,  are  buried  deep 
in  the  wrecks  of  time  ; and  that  Moses  still  lives,  not  among 
his  own  tribe  only,  but  in  the  hearts  and  daily  business  of  all 
civilised  nations.  Or  figure  Mahomet,  in  his  youthful  years, 
‘ travelling  to.  the  horse-fairs  of  Syria.’  Nay,  to  take  an  in- 
finitely higher  instance  : who  has  ever  forgotten  those  lines 
of  Tacitus  ; inserted  as  a small,  transitory,  altogether  trifling 
circumstance  in  the  history  of  such  a potentate  as  Nero? 
To  us  it  is  the  most  earnest,  sad  and  sternly  significant  pas- 
sage that  we  know  to  exist  in  writing  : Ergo  abolenclo  rumori 
Nero  subdidit  reos,  et  qucesitissimis  pcenis  affecit,  quos  per 
Jlagitia  invisos,  vulgus  Christianos  appellabat.  Auctor  nominis 
ejus  Christtts,  qui,  Tiberio  imperitante,  per  Procuratorem  Pon- 
tium  Pilatum  supplicio  affectus  erat.  Pmpressaque  in  prcesens 
exitiabilis  superstitio  rursus  erumpebat,  non  modo  per  Judceam 
originem  ejus  _ mali,  sed  per  urbem  eliam,  quo  cuncta  undique 
atrocia  aut  pudenda  conjiuunt  celebranturque.  ‘ So,  for  the 
‘quieting  of  this  rumour-,1  Nero  judicially  charged  -with  the 
‘ crime,  and  punished  with  most  studied  severities,  that  class, 

‘ hated  for  their  general  wickedness,  whom  the  vulgar  call 
‘ Christians.  The  originator  of  that  name  was  one  Christ, 

‘ who,  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  suffered  death  by  sentence  of 
‘ the  Procurator,  Pontius  Pilate.  The  baneful  superstition, 

‘ thereby  repressed  for  the  time,  again  broke  out,  not  only  over 
‘ Judea,  the  native  soil  of  that  mischief,  but  in  the  City  also, 
‘ where  from  every  side  all  atrocious  and  abominable  things 
‘ collect  and  flourish.’ 2 Tacitus  was  the  wisest,  most  penetrat- 
ing man  of  his  generation  ; and  to  such  depth,  and  no  deeper, 
has  he  seen  into  this  transaction,  the  most  important  that  has 
occurred  or  can  occur  in  the  annals  of  mankind. 

Nor  is  it  only  to  those  primitive  ages,  when  religions  took 
their  rise,  and  a man  of  pure  and  high  mind  appeared  not 
merely  as  a teacher  and  philosopher,  but  as  a priest  and 
prophet,  that  our  observation  applies.  The  same  uncertainty, 
in  estimating  present  things  and  men,  holds  more  or  less  in 
all  times  ; for  in  all  times,  even  in  those  which  seem  most 
- 1 Of  liis  having  set  fire  to  Rome.  2 Tacit.  Annul,  xv.  44. 


VOLTAIRE. 


_ 8 

trivial,  and  open  to  research,  human  society  rests  on  inscru- 
tably deep  foundations  ; which  lie  is  of  all  others  the  most 
mistaken,  who  fancies  he  has  explored  to  the  bottom.  Nei- 
ther is  that  sequence,  which  we  love  to  speak  of  as  ‘ a chain 
of  causes,’  properly  to  be  figured  as  a ‘ chain,’  or  line,  but 
rather  as  a tissue,  or  superficies  of  innumerable  lines,  ex- 
tending in  breadth  as  well  as  in  length,  and  with  a complex- 
ity, which  will  foil  and  utterly  bewilder  the  most  assiduous 
computation.  In  fact,  the  wisest  of  us  must,  for  by  far  the 
most  part,  judge  like  the  simplest;  estimate  importance  by 
mere  magnitude,  and  expect  that  what  strongly  affects  our 
own  generation,  will  strongly  affect  those  that  are  to  follow. 
In  this  way  it  is  that  Conquerors  and  political  Revolutionists 
come  to  figure  as  so  mighty  in  their  influences  ; whereas  truly 
there  is  no  class  of  persons  creating  suet  an  uproar  in  the 
world,  who  in  the  long-run  produce  so  very  slight  an  impres- 
sion on  its  affairs.  When  Tamerlane  had  finished  building 
his  pyramid  of  seventy  thousand  human  skulls,  and  was  seen 
‘ standing  at  the  gate  of  Damascus,  glittering  in  steel,  with 
his  battle-axe  on  his  shoulder,’  till  his  fierce  hosts  filed  out 
to  hew  victories  and  new  carnage,  the  pale  onlooker  might 
have  fancied  that  Nature  was  in  her  death-throes  ; for  havoc 
and  despair  had  taken  possession  of  the  earth,  the  sun  of 
manhood  seemed  setting  in  seas  of  blood.  Yet,  it  might  be 
on  that  very  gala-day  of  Tamerlane,  a little  boy  was  playing 
nine-pins  on  the  streets  of  Mentz,  whose  history  was  more 
important  to  men  than  that  of  twenty  Tamerlanes.  The 
Tartar  Khan,  with  his  shaggy  demons  of  the  wilderness, 
1 passed  away  like  a whirlwind,’  to  be  forgotten  forever  ; and 
that  German  artisan  has  wrought  a benefit,  which  is  yet  im- 
measurably expanding  itself,  and  will  continue  to  expand 
itself  through  all  countries  and  through  all  times.  What  are 
the  conquests  and  expeditions  of  the  whole  corporation  of 
captains,  from  Walter  the  Penniless  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
compared  with  these  ‘movable  types’  of  Johannes  Faust? 
Truly,  it  is  a mortifying  thing  for  your  Conqueror  to  reflect, 
how  perishable  is  the  metal  whiclx  he  hammers  with  such 
violence  : how  the  kind  earth  will  soon  shroud-up  his  bloody 


VOLTAIRE. 


9 


footprints  ; and  all  tliat  lie  achieved  and  skilfully  piled  to- 
gether will  be  but  like  his  own  ‘ canvas  city  ’ of  a camp, — 
this  evening  loud  with  life,  to-morrow  all  struck  and  van- 
ished, ‘ a few  earth-pits  and  heaps  of  straw ! ' For  here,  as 
always,  it  continues  true,  that  the  deepest  force  is  the  stillest ; 
that,  as  in  the  Fable,  the  mild  shining  of  the  sun  shall  silently 
accomplish  what  the  fierce  blustering  of  the  tempest  has 
in  vain  essayed.  Above  all,  it  is  ever  to  be  kept  in  mind, 
that  not  by  material,  but  by  moral  power,  are  men  and  their 
actions  governed.  How  noiseless  is  thought ! No  rolling  of 
drums,  no  tramp  of  squadrons,  or  immeasurable  tumult  of 
baggage-wagons,  attends  its  movements : in  what  obscure 
and  sequestered  places  may  the  head  be  meditating,  which  is 
one  day  to  be  crowned  with  more  than  imperial  authority  ; 
for  Kings  and  Emperors  will  be  among  its  ministering  ser- 
vants ; it  will  rule  not  over,  but  in,  all  heads,  and  with  these 
its  solitary  combinations  of  ideas,  as  with  magic  formulas 
bend  the  world  to  its  will ! The  time  may  come,  when  Na- 
poleon himself  will  be  better  known  for  his  laws  than  for  his 
battles  ; and  the  victory  of  Waterloo  prove  less  momentous 
than  the  opening  of  the  first  Mechanics’  Institute. 

We  have  been  led  into  such  rather  trite  reflections,  by 
these  Volumes  of  Memoirs  on  Voltaire ; a man  in  whose 
history  the  relative  importance  of  intellectual  and  physical 
power  is  again  curiously  evinced.  This  also  was  a private 
person,  by  birth  nowise  an  elevated  one  ; yet  so  far  as  pres- 
ent knowledge  will  enable  us  to  judge,  it  may  be  said  that 
to  abstract  Voltaire  and  his  activity  from  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, were  to  produce  a greater  difference  in  the  existing 
figure  of  things,  than  the  want  of  any  other  individual,  up 
to  this  day,  could  have  occasioned.  Nay,  with  the  single 
exception  of  Luther,  there  is  perhaps,  in  these  modern  ages, 
no  other  man  of  a merely  intellectual  character,  whose  influ- 
ence and  reputation  have  become  so  entirely  European  as 
that  of  Voltaire.  Indeed,  like  the  great  German  Keformer’s, 
his  doctrines  too,  almost  from  the  first,  have  affected  not  only 
the  belief  of  the  thinking  world,  silently  propagating  them- 


10 


VOLTAIRE. 


selves  from  mind  to  mind  ; but  in  a high  degree  also,  the 
conduct  of  the  active  and  political  -world  ; entering  as  a dis- 
tinct element  into  some  of  the  most  fearful  civil  convulsions 
which  European  history  has  on  record. 

Doubtless,  to  his  own  contemporaries,  to  such  of  them  at 
least  as  had  any  insight  into  the  actual  state  of  men’s  minds, 
Voltaire  already  appeared  as  a noteworthy  and  decidedly  his- 
torical personage  : yet,  perhaps,  not  the  wildest  of  his  ad- 
mirers ventured  to  assign  him  such  a magnitude  as  he  now 
figures  in,  even  with  his  adversaries  and  detractors.  He  has 
grown  in  apparent  importance,  as  we  receded  from  him,  as 
the  nature  of  his  endeavours  became  more  and  more  visible 
in  their  results.  For,  unlike  many  great  men,  but  like  all 
great  agitators,  Voltaire  everywhere  shows  himself  emphat- 
ically as  the  man  of  his  century  : uniting  in  his  own  person 
whatever  spiritual  accomplishments  were  most  valued  by 
that  age  ; at  the  same  time,  with  no  depth  to  discern  its 
ulterior  tendencies,  still  less  with  any  magnanimity  to  attempt 
withstanding  these,  his  greatness  and  his  littleness  alike  fitted 
him  to  produce  an  immediate  effect  ; for  he  leads  whither  the 
multitude  was  of  itself  dimly  minded  to  rim,  and  keeps  the 
van  not  less  by  skill  in  commanding,  than  by  cunning  in 
obeying.  Besides,  now  that  we  look  on  the  matter  from 
some  distance,  the  efforts  of  a thousand  coadjutors  and  dis- 
ciples, nay  a series  of  mighty  political  vicissitudes,  in  the  pro- 
duction of  which  these  efforts  had  but  a subsidiary  share,  have 
all  come,  naturally  in  such  a case,  to  appear  as  if  exclusively 
his  work  ; so  that  he  rises  before  us  as  the  paragon  and  epitome 
of  a whole  spiritual  period,  now  almost  passed  away,  yet  re- 
markable in  itself,  and  more  than  ever  interesting  to  us,  who 
seem  to  stand,  as  itwere,  on  the  confines  of  a new  and  better  one. 

Nay,  had  we  forgotten  that  ours  is  the  ‘Age  of  the  Press,’ 
when  he  who  runs  may  not  only  read,  but  furnish  us  with 
reading  ; and  simply  counted  the  books,  and  scattered  leaves, 
thick  as  the  autumnal  in  Vallombrosa,  that  have  been  written 
and  printed  concerning  this  man,  we  might  almost  fancy  him 
the  most  important  person,  not  of  the  eighteenth  century,  but 
of  all  the  centuries  from  Noah’s  Flood  downwards.  W e have 


VOLTAIRE. 


11 


Lives  of  Voltaire  by  friend  and  by  foe  : Condorcet,  Dover  not, 
Lepan,  have  each  given  us  a whole  ; portions,  documents  and 
all  manner  of  authentic  or  spurious  contributions  have  been 
supplied  by  innumerable  hands  ; of  which  we  mention  only 
the  labours  of  his  various  Secretaries  : Collini’s,  published 
some  twenty  years  ago,  and  now  these  Twto  massive  Octavos 
from  Longchamp  and  Wagniere.  To  say  nothing  of  the  Baron 
de  Grimm’s  Collections,  unparalleled  in  more  than  one  re- 
spect ; or  of  the  six-and-tliirty  volumes  of  scurrilous  eaves- 
dropping, long  since  printed  under  the  title  of  M'emoires  de 
Bachaumont ; or  of  the  daily  and  hourly  attacks  and  defences 
that  appeared  separately  in  his  lifetime,  and  all  the  judicial 
pieces,  whether  in  the  style  of  apotheosis  or  of  excommunica- 
tion, that  have  seen  the  light  since  then  ; a mass  of  fugitive 
writings,  the  very  diamond  edition  of  which  might  fill  whole 
libraries.  The  peculiar  talent  of  the  French  in  all  narrative, 
at  least  iu  all  auecdotic,  departments,  rendering  most  of  these 
Avorks  extremely  readable,  still  farther  favoured  their  circula- 
tion, both  at  home  and  abroad  : so  that  uoav,  in  most  coun- 
tries, Voltaire  has  been  read  of  and  talked  of,  till  his  name 
and  life  have  grown  familiar  like  those  of  a village  accpiaint- 
ance.  In  England,  at  least,  where  for  almost  a century  the 
study  of  foreign  literature  has,  we  may  say,  confined  itself  to 
that  of  the  French,  Avitli  a slight  intermixture  from  the  elder 
Italians,  Voltaire’s  writings,  and  such  Avritings  as  treated  of 
him,  Avere  little  likely  to  Avant  readers.  We  suppose,  there  is 
no  literary  era,  not  even  any  domestic  one,  concerning  which 
Englishmen  in  general  have  such  information,  at  least  haAre 
gathered  so  many  anecdotes  and  opinions,  as  concerning  this 
of  Voltaire.  Nor  have  native  additions  to  the  stock  been 
wanting,  and  these  of  a due  variety  in  purport  and  kind  : mal- 
edictions, expostulations  and  dreadful  death-scenes  painted 
like  Spanish  Sanbenitos,  by  Aveak  well-meaning  persons  of  the 
hostile  class  ; eulogies,  generally  of  a gayer  sorif,  by  open  or 
secret  friends  : all  this  has  been  long  and  extensively  carried 
on  among  us.  There  is  even  an  English  Life  of  Voltaire  ; 1 

1 ‘ By  Frank  Hall  Standish,  Esq.’  (London,  1821)  •,  a work,  which  we 
can  recommend  only  to  such  as  feel  themselves  in  extreme  want  of  in- 


12 


VOLTAIRE. 


nay,  we  remember  to  have  seen  portions  of  bis  writings  cited 
in  terrorem,  and  witb  criticisms,  in  some  pamphlet,  ‘ by  a coun- 
try gentleman,’  either  on  the  Education  of  the  People,  or  else 
on  the  question  of  Preserving  the  Game. 

With  the  ‘ Age  of  the  Press,’  and  such  manifestations  of  it 
on  this  subject,  we  are  far  from  quarrelling.  We  have  read 
great  part  of  these  thousancl-and-first  ‘ Memoirs  on  Voltaire,’ 
by  Longchamp  and  Wagniere,  not  without  satisfaction ; and 
can  cheerfully  look  forward  to  still  other  ‘ Memoirs  ’ follow- 
ing in  their  train.  Nothing  can  be  more  in  the  course  of 
Nature  than  the  wish  to  satisfy  oneself  with  knowledge  of  all 
sorts  about  any  distinguished  person,  especially  of  our  own 
era  ; the  true  study  of  his  character,  his  spiritual  individual- 
ity and  peculiar  manner  of  existence,  is  full  of  instruction  for 
all. mankind : even  that  of  his  looks,  sayings,  habitudes  and 
indifferent  actions,  were  not  the  records  of  them  generally 
lies,  is  rather  to  be  commended ; nay,  are  not  such  lies 
themselves,  when  they  keep  within  bounds,  and  the  subject 
of  them  has  been  dead  for  some  time,  equal  to  snipe-shoot- 
ing, or  Colburn-Novels,  at  least  little  inferior,  in  the  great 
art  of  getting  done  with  life,  or,  as  it  is  technically  called, 
killing  time?  For  our  own  part,  we  say:  Would  that  every 
Johnson  in  the  world  had  his  veridical  Boswell,  or  leash  of 
Boswells ! We  could  then  tolerate  his  Hawkins  also,  though 
not  veridical.  With  regard  to  Voltaire,  in  particular,  it  seems 
to  us  not  only  innocent  but  profitable,  that  the  whole  truth 
regarding  him  should  be  well  understood.  Surely,  the  biog- 
raphy of  such  a man,  who,  to  say  no  more  of  him,  spent 
his  best  efforts,  and  as  many  still  think,  successfully,  in  as- 
saulting the  Christian  religion,  must  be  a matter  of  consider- 
able import  ; what  he  did,  and  what  he  could  not  do  ; how  he 
did  it,  or  attempted  it,  that  is,  with  what  degree  of  strength, 

formation  on -this  subject,  and  except  in  their  own  language  unable  to 
acquire  any.  It  is  written  very  badly,  though  with  sincerity,  and 
not  without  considerable  indications  of  taleni  ; to  all  appearance  by  a 
minor  ; many  of  whose  statements  and  opinions  (forte  seems  an  inquir- 
ing, honest-hearted,  rather  decisive  character)  must  have  begun  to  as- 
tonish even  himself,  several  years  ago. 


VOLTAIRE. 


13 


clearness,  especially  with  what  moral  intents,  what  theories 
and  feelings  on  man  and  man’s  life,  are  questions  that  will 
hear  some  discussing.  To  Voltaire  individually,  for  the  last 
fifty-one  years,  the  discussion  has  been  indifferent  enough  ; 
and  to  us  it  is  a discussion  not  on  one  remarkable  person 
only,  and  chiefly  for  the  curious  or  studious,  but  involving 
considerations  of  highest  moment  to  all  men,  and  inquiries 
which  the  utmost  compass  of  our  philosophy  will  be  unable 
to  embrace. 

Here,  accordingly,  we  are  about  to  offer  some  farther  ob- 
servations on  this  qucestio  vexata  ; not  without  hope  that  the 
reader  may  accept  them  in  good  part.  Doubtless,  when  we 
look  at  the  whole  bearings  of  the  matter,  there  seems  little 
prospect  of  any  unanimity  respecting  it,  either  now,  or  within 
a calculable  period  : it  is  probable  that  many  will  continue, 
for  a long  time,  to  speak  of  this  ‘universal  genius,’  this  ‘apostle 
of  Reason,’  and  ‘ father  of  sound  Philosophy ; ’ and  many  again, 
of  this  ‘monster  of  impiety,’  this  ‘sophist,’  and  ‘atheist,’  and 
‘ ape-demon  ; ’ or,  like  the  late  Dr.  Clarke,  of  Cambridge,  dis- 
miss him  more  briefly  with  information  that  he  is  ‘a  driveller 
neither  is  it  essential  that  these  two  parties  should,  on  the 
spur  of  the  instant,  reconcile  themselves  herein.  Neverthe- 
less, truth  is  better  than  error,  were  it  only  ‘on  Hannibal’s 
vinegar.  ’ It  may  be  expected  that  men’s  opinions  concerning 
Voltaire,  which  is  of  some  moment,  and  concerning  Voltair- 
ism, which  is  of  almost  boundless  moment,  will,  if  they 
cannot  meet,  gradually  at  every  new  comparison  approach 
towards  meeting ; and  what  is  still  more  desirable,  towards 
meeting  somewhere  nearer  the  truth  than  they  actually  stand. 

With  honest  wishes  to  promote  such  ^ approximation,  there 
is  one  condition,  which,  above  all  others,  in  this  inquiry,  we 
must  beg  the  reader  to  impose  on  himself : the  duty  of  fair- 
ness towards  Voltaire,  of  tolerance  towards  him,  as  towards 
all  men.  This,  truly,  is  a duty,  which  we  have  the  happiness 
to  hear  daily  inculcated  ; yet  which,  it  has  been  well  said,  no 
mortal  is  at  bottom  disposed  to  practise.  Nevertheless,  if  we 
really  desire  to  understand  the  truth  on  any  subject,  not 
merely,  as  is  much  more  common,  to  confirm  our  already  ex- 


14 


VOLTAIRE. 


isting  opinions,  and  gratify  this  and  the  other  pitiful  claim  of 
vanity  or  malice  in  respect  of  it,  tolerance  may  be  regarded 
as  the  most  indispensable  of  all  pre-requisites ; the  condition, 
indeed,  by  which  alone  any  real  progress  in  the  question  be- 
comes possible.  In  respect  of  our  fellow-men,  and  all  real  in- 
sight into  their  characters,  this  is  especially  true.  No  char- 
acter, we  may  affirm,  was  ever  rightly  understood,  till  it  had 
first  been  regarded  with  a certain  feeling,  not  of  tolerance 
only,  but  of  sympathy.  For  here,  more  than  in  any  other 
case,  it  is  verified  that  the  heart  sees  farther  than  the  head. 
Let  us  be  sure,  our  enemy  is  not  that  hateful  being  we  are  too 
apt  to  paint  him.  His  vices  and  basenesses  lie  combined  in 
far  other  order  before  his  own  mind,  than  before  ours ; and 
under  colours  which  palliate  them,  nay  perhaps  exhibit  them 
as  virtues.  Were  he  the  wretch  of  our  imagining,  his  life 
would  be  a burden  to  himself  : for  it  is  not  by  bread  alone 
that  the  basest  mortal  lives  ; a certain  approval  of  conscience 
is  equally  essential  even  to  physical  existence  ; is  the  fine  all- 
pervading  cement  by  which  that  wondrous  union,  a Self,  is 
held  together.  Since  the  man,  therefore,  is  not  in  Bedlam, 
and  has  not  shot  or  hanged  himself,  let  us  take  comfort,  and 
conclude  that  he  is  one  of  two  things  : either  a vicious  dog,  in 
man’s  guise,  to  be  muzzled  and  mourned  over,  and  greatly 
marvelled  at ; or  a real  man,  and  consequently  not  without 
moral,  worth,  which  is  to  be  enlightened,  and  so  far  approved 
of.  But  to  judge  rightly  of  his  character,  we  must  learn  to 
look  at  it,  not  less  with  his  eyes,  than  with  our  own ; we 
must  learn  to  pity  him,  to  see  him  as  a fellow-creature,  in  a 
word,  to  love  him ; or  his  real  spiritual  nature  will  ever  be 
mistaken  by  us.  In  interpreting  Voltaire,  accordingly,  it  will 
be  needful  to  bear  some  things  carefully  in  mind,  and  to  keep 
many  other  things  as  carefully  in  abeyance.  Let  us  forget 
that  our  opinions  were  ever  assailed  by  him,  or  ever  de- 
fended ; that  we  have  to  thank  him,  or  upbraid  him,  for  pain 
or  for  pleasure  ; let  us  forget  that  we  are  Deists  or  Millen- 
narians,  Bishops  or  Radical  Reformers,  and  remember  only 
that  we  are  men.  This  is  a European  subject,  or  there  never 
was  one  ; and  must,  if  we  would  in  the  least  comprehend  it, 


VOLTAIRE. 


15 


be  looked  at  neither  from  the  parish  belfry,  nor  any  Peterloo 
platform  ; but,  if  possible,  from  some  natural  and  infinitely 
higher  point  of  vision. 

It  is  a remarkable  fact,  that  throughout  the  last  fifty  years 
of  his  life,  Voltaire  was  seldom  or  never  named,  even  by  his 
detractors,  without  the  epithet  ‘ great  ’ being  appended  to 
him  ; so  that,  had  the  syllables  suited  such  a junction,  as 
they  did  in  the  happier  case  of  Charle-Magne,  we  might  al- 
most have  expected  that,  not  Voltaire,  but  Voltaire-ce-grand- 
homme  would  be  his  designation  with  posterity.  However, 
posterity  is  much  more  stinted  in  its  allowances  on  that 
score  ; and  a multitude  of  things  remain  to  be  adjusted,  and 
questions  of  very  dubious  issue  to  be  gone  into,  before  such 
coronation-titles  can  be  conceded  with  any  permanence.  The 
million,  even  the  wiser  part  of  them,  are  apt  to  lose  them  dis- 
cretion, when  ‘ tumultuously  assembled  ; ’ for  a small  object, 
near  at  hand,  may  subtend  a large  angle ; and  often  a Pen- 
nenden  Heath  has  been  mistaken  for  a Field  of  Eunnymead ; 
whereby  the  couplet  on  that  immortal  Dalhousie  proves  to 
be  the  emblem  of  many  a man’s  real  fortune  with  the  public : 

And  thou,  Dalhousie,  the  great  God  of  War, 

Lieutenant-Colonel  to  the  Earl  of  Mar  ; 

the  latter  end  corresponding  poorly  with  the  beginning.  To 
ascertain  what  was  the  true  significance  of  Voltaire’s  history, 
both  as  respects  himself  and  the  world  ; what  was  his  specific 
character  and  value  as  a man  ; what  has  been  the  character 
and  value  of  his  influence  on  society,  of  his  appearance  as  an 
active  agent  in  the  culture  of  Europe  : all  this  leads  us  into 
much  deeper  investigations  ; on  the  settlement  of  which, 
however,  the  whole  business  turns. 

To  our  own  view,  we  confess,  on  looking  at  Voltaire’s  life, 
the  chief  quality  that  shows  itself  is  one  for  which  adroitness 
seems  the  fitter  name.  Greatness  implies  several  conditions, 
the  existence  of  which  in  his  case  it  might  be  difficult  to 
demonstrate  ; but  of  his  claim  to  this  other  praise  there  can 
be  no  disputing.  Whatever  be  his  aims,  high  or  low,  just  or 
the  contrary,  he  is,  at  all  times  and  to  the  utmost  degree, 


16 


VOLTAIRE. 


expert  in  pursuing  them.  It  is  to  be  observed,  moreover, 
that  his  aims  in  general  were  not  of  a simple  sort,  and  the 
attainment  of  them  easy  : few  literary  men  have  had  a course 
so  diversified  with  vicissitudes  as  Voltaire’s.  His  life  is  not 
spent  in  a corner,  like  that  of  a studious  recluse,  but  on  the 
open  theatre  of  the  world  ; in  an  age  full  of  commotion, 
when  society  is  rending  itself  asunder,  Superstition  already 
armed  for  deadly  battle  against  Unbelief  ; in  which  battle  he 
himself  plays  a distinguished  part.  From  his  earliest  years, 
we  find  him  in  perpetual  communication  with  the  higher  per- 
sonages of  his  time,  often  with  the  highest : it  is  in  circles  of 
authority,  of  reputation,  at  lowest  of  fashion  and  rank,  that 
he  lives  and  works.  Ninon  de  l’Enclos  leaves  the  boy  a legacy 
to  buy  books ; he  is  still  young,  when  he  can  say  of  his  supper 
companions,  “We  are  all  Princes  or  Poets.”  In  after  life,  he 
exhibits  himself  in  company  or  correspondence  with  all  man- 
ner of  principalities  and  powers,  from  Queen  Caroline  of 
England  to  the  Empress  Catherine  of  Russia,  from  Pope 
Benedict  to  Frederick  the  Great.  Meanwhile,  shifting  from 
side  to  side  of  Europe,  hiding  in  the  country,  or  living  sump- 
tuously iu  capital  cities,  he  quits  not  his  pen  ; with  which,  as 
with  some  enchanter’s  rod,  more  potent  than  any  king’s  scep- 
tre, he  turns  and  winds  the  mighty  machine  of  European 
Opinion  ; approves  himself,  as  his  schoolmaster  had  pre- 
dicted, the  Coryphee  du  Dtisme  ; and,  not  content  with  this 
elevation,  strives,  and  nowise  ineffectually,  to  unite  with  it  a 
poetical,  historical,  philosophic  and  even  scientific  preeminence. 
Nay,  we  may  add,  a pecuniary  one  ; for  he  speculates  in  the 
funds,  diligently  solicits  pensions  and  promotions,  trades  to 
America,  is  long  a regular  victualling-contractor  for  armies  ; 
and  thus,  by  one  means  and  another,  independently  of  litera- 
ture which  would  never  yield  much  money,  raises  his  income 
from  eight  hundred  francs  a-year  to  more  than  centuple  that 
sum.1  And  now,  having,  besides  all  this  commercial  and 
economical  business,  written  some  thirty  quartos,  the  most 
popular  that  were  ever  written,  he  returns  after  long  exile  to 
his  native  city,  to  be  welcomed  there  almost  as  a religious 
1 See  Tome  ii.  p.  32S  of  these  Memoires. 


VOLTAIRE. 


17 


idol ; and  closes  a life,  prosperous  alike  in  the  building  of 
country-seats,  and  the  composition  of  Henriades  and  Philo- 
sophical Dictionaries,  by  the  most  appropriate  demise, — by 
drowning,  as  it  were,  in  an  ocean  of  applause  ; so  that  as  he 
lived  for  fame,  he  may  be  said  to  have  died  of  it. 

Such  various,  complete  success,  granted  only  to  a small 
portion  of  men  in  any  age  of  the  world,  presupposes  at  least, 
with  every  allowance  for  good  fortune,  an  almost  unrivalled 
expertness  of  management.  There  must  have  been  a great 
talent  of  some  kind  at  work  here  ; a cause  proportionate  to 
the  effect.  It  is  wonderful,  truly,  to  observe  with  what  per- 
fect skill  Voltaire  steers  his  course  through  so  many  conflict- 
ing circumstances : how  he  weathers  this  Cape  Horn,  darts 
lightly  through  that  Mahlstrom  ; always  either  sinks  his 
enemy,  or  shuns  him  ; here  waters,  and  careens,  and  traffics 
with  the  rich  savages  ; there  lies  land-locked  till  the  hurri- 
cane is  overblown ; and  so,  in  spite  of  all  billows,  and  sea- 
monsters,  and  hostile  fleets,  finishes  his  long  Manilla  A'oj'age, 
with  streamers  flying,  and  deck  piled  with  ingots  ! To  say 
nothing  of  his  literary  character,  of  which  this  same  dexter- 
ous address  will  also  be  found  to  be  a main  feature,  let  us 
glance  only  at  the  general  aspect  of  his  conduct,  as  mani- 
fested both  in  his  writings  and  actions.  By  turns,  and  ever 
at  the  right  season,  he  is  imperious  and  obsequious ; now 
shoots  abroad,  from  the  mountain  tops,  Hyperion-like,  his 
keen  innumerable  shafts  ; anon,  when  danger  is  advancing, 
flies  to  obscure  nooks  ; or,  if  taken  in  the  fact,  swears  it  was 
but  in  sport,  and  that  he  is  the  peaceablest  of  men.  He  bends 
to  occasion  ; can,  to  a certain  extent,  blow  hot  or  blow  cold  ; 
and  never  attempts  force,  where  cunning  will  serve  his  turn. 
The  beagles  of  the  Hierarchy  and  of  the  Monarchy,  proverbi- 
ally quick  of  scent  and  sharp  of  tooth,  are  out  in  quest  of 
him ; but  this  is  a lion-fox  which  cannot  be  captured.  By 
wiles  and  a thousand  doublings,  he  utterly  distracts,  his  pur- 
suers ; he  can  burrow  in  the  earth,  and  all  the  trace  of  him  is 
gone.1  With  a strange  system  of  anonymity  and  publicity,  of 

1 Of  one  such  ‘ taking  to  cover’  we  have  a curious  and  rather  ridicu- 
lous account  in  this  Work,  by  Longchamp.  It  was  with  the  Duchess  du 
2 


18 


VOLTAIRE. 


denial  and  assertion,  of  Mystification  in  all  senses,  has  Vol- 
taire surrounded  himself.  He  can  raise  no  standing  armies 
for  his  defence,  jret  he  too  is  a ‘ European  Power,’  and  not 
undefended  ; an  invisible,  impregnable,  though  hitherto  un- 
recognised bulwark,  that  of  Public  Opinion,  defends  him. 
With  great  art,  he  maintains  this  stronghold  ; though  ever 
and  anon  sallying  out  from  it,  far  beyond  the  permitted  lim- 
its. But  he  has  his  coat  of  darkness,  and  his  shoes  of  swift- 
ness, like  that  other  Killer  of  Giants.  We  find  Voltaire  a 
supple  courtier,  or  a sharp  satirist ; he  can  talk  blasphemy, 
and  build  churches,  according  to  the  signs  of  the  times. 
Frederick  the  Great  is  not  too  high  for  his  diplomacy,  nor 
the  poor  Printer  of  his  Zadig  too  low  ; 1 he  manages  the  Car- 
dinal Fleuri,  and  the  Cure  of  St.  Sulpiee  ; and  laughs  in  his 
sleeve  at  all  the  world.  We  should  pronounce  him  to  be  one 
of  the  best  politicians  on  record  ; as  we  have  said,  the  adroit- 
est  of  all  literary  men. 

At  the  same  time,  Voltaire’s  worst  enemies,  it  seems  to  us, 
will  ndt  deny  that  he  had  naturally  a keen  sense  for  rectitude, 
indeed  for  all  virtue  : the  utmost  vivacity  of  temperament 
characterises  him  ; his  quick  susceptibility  for  every  form  of 
beauty  is  moral  as  well  as  intellectual.  Nor  was  his  practice 
without  indubitable  and  highly  creditable  proofs  of  this.  To 
the  lielp-needing  he  was  at  all  times  a ready  benefactor : 
many  were  the  hungry  adventurers  who  profited  of  his 
bounty,  and  then  bit  the  hand  that  had  fed  them..  If  we 
enumerate  his  generous  acts,  from  the  case  of  the  Abbe  Des- 
fontaines  down  to  that  of  the  Widow  Galas,  and  the  Serfs  of 
Saint-Claude,  we  shall  find  that  few  private  men  have  had  so 
wide  a circle  of  charity,  and  have  watched  over  it  so  well. 
Should  it  be  objected  that  love  of  reputation  entered  largely 
into  these  proceedings,  Voltaire  can  afford  a handsome  de- 

Maine  fhat^he  sought  shelter,  and  on  a very  slight  occasion:  neverthe- 
less lie  had  to  lie  perdue,  for  two  month’s,  at  the  Castle  of  Sceaux;  and, 
with  closed  windows,  and  burning  candles  in  daylight,  compose  Zadig , 
Baboue , Memnon,  &c.,  for  his  amusement. 

'See  in  Longchamp  (pp.  154-168)  how,  by  natural  legerdemain,  a 
knave  may  be  caught,  and  the  change  rendu  d des  inijgrimeurs  infideks. 


VOLTAIRE. 


19 


duction  on  that  head  : should  the  uncharitable  even  calculate 
that  love  of  reputation  was  the  sole  motive,  we  can  only  re- 
mind them  that  love  of  such  reputation  is  itself  the  effect  of  a 
social,  humane  disposition  ; and  wish,  as  an  immense  im- 
provement, that  all  men  were  animated  with  it.  Voltaire  was 
not  without  his  experience  of  human  baseness  ; but  he  still 
had  a fellow-feeling  for  human  sufferings  ; and  delighted, 
were  it  only  as  an  honest  luxury,  to  relieve  them.  His  at- 
tachments seem  remarkably  constant  and  lasting  : even  such 
sots  as  Tliiriot,  whom  nothing  but  habit  could  have  endeared 
to  him,  he  continues,  and  after  repeated  injuries,  to  treat  and 
regard  as  friends.  Of  his  equals  we  do  not  observe  him  en- 
vious, at  least  not  palpably  and  despicably  so ; though  this, 
we  should  add,  might  be  in  him,  who  was  from  the  first  so 
paramountly  popular,  no  such  hard  attainment.  Against 
Montesquieu,  perhaps  against  him  alone,  he  cannot,  help  en- 
tertaining a small  secret  grudge  ; yet  ever  in  public  he  does 
him  the  amplest  justice  ; V Arlequin-Grotius  of  the  fireside  be- 
comes, on  all  grave  occasions,  the  author  of  the  Esprit  des 
Loix.  Neither  to  his  enemies,  and  even  betrayers,  is  Voltaire 
implacable  or  meanly  vindictive  ; the  instant  of  their  submis- 
sion is  also  the  instant  of  his  forgiveness  ; their  hostility  itself 
provokes  only  casual  sallies  from  him  ; his  heart  is  too  kindly, 
indeed  too  light,  to  cherish  any  rancour,  any  continuation  of 
revenge.  If  he  has  not  the  virtue  to  forgive,  he  is  seldom 
without  the  prudence  to  forget : if,  in  his  life-long  conten- 
tions, he  cannot  treat  his  opponents  with  any  magnanimity, 
he  seldom,  or  perhaps  never  once,  treats  them  quite  basely  ; 
seldom  or  never  with  that  absolute  unfairness,  which  the  law 
of  retaliation  might  so  often  have  seemed  to  justify.  We 
would  say  that,  if  no  heroic,  he  is  at  all  times  a perfectly  civ- 
ilised man  ; which,  considering  that  his  war  was  with  exas- 
perated theologians,  and  a ‘ war  to  the  knife  ’ on  their  part, 
may  be  looked  upon  as  rather  a surprising  circumstance.  He 
exhibits  many  minor  virtues,  a due  appreciation  of  the  high- 
est ; and  fewer  faults  than,  in  his  situation,  might  have  been 
expected,  and  perhaps  pardoned. 

All  this  is  well,  and  may  fit  out  a highly  expert  and  much 


20 


VOLTAIRE. 


esteemed  man  of  business,  in  the  widest  sense  of  that  term « 
but  is  still  far  from  constituting  a ‘great  character.’  In  fact, 
there  is  one  deficiency  in  Voltaire’s  original  structure,  which, 
it  appears  to  us,  must  be  quite  fatal  to  such  claims  for  him  : 
we  mean  his  inborn  levity  of  nature,  his  entire  want  of  Ear- 
nestness. Voltaire  was  by 'birth  a Mocker,  and  light  Pococu- 
rante ; which  natural  disposition  his  way  of  life  confirmed 
into  a predominant,  indeed  all-pervading,  habit.  Ear  be  it 
from  us  to  say,  that  solemnity  is  an  essential  of  greatness ; 
that  no  great  man  can  have  other  than  a rigid  vinegar  aspect 
of  countenance,  never  to  be  thawed  or  warmed  by  billows  of 
mirth  ! There  are  things  in  this  world  to  be  laughed  at,  as 
well  as  things  to  be  admired  ; and  his  is  no  complete  mind, 
that  cannot  give  to  each  sort  its  due.  Nevertheless,  con- 
tempt is  a dangerous  element  to  sport  in  ; a deadly  one,  if  we 
habitually  live  in  it.  How,  indeed,  to  take  the  lowest  view 
of  this  matter,  shall  a man  accomplish  great  enterprises  ; en- 
during all  toil,  resisting  temptation,  laying  aside  every  'weight, 
— unless  he  zealously  love  wdiat  he  pursues  ? The  faculty  of 
love,  of  admiration,  is  to  be  regarded  as  the  sign  and  the 
measure  of  high  souls : unwisely  directed,  it  leads  to  many 
evils  ; but  without  it,  there  cannot  be  any  good.  Ridicule, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  indeed  a faculty  much  prized  by  its 
possessors  ; yet,  intrinsically,  it  is  a small  faculty  ; we  may 
say,  the  smallest  of  all  faculties  that  other  men  are  at  the 
pains  to  repay  with  any  esteem.  It  is  directly  opposed  to 
Thought,  to  Knowledge,  properly,  so  called  ; its  nourishment 
and  essence  is  Denial,  which  hovers  only  on  the  surface,  while 
Knowledge  dwells  far  below.  Moreover,  it  is  by  nature  sel- 
fish and  morally  trivial ; it  cherishes  nothing  but  our  Vanity, 
which  may  in  general  be  left  safely  enough  to  shift  for  itself. 
Little  ‘discourse  of  reason,’  in  any  sense,  is  implied  in  Ridi- 
cule : a scoffing  man  is  in  no  lofty  mood,  for  the  time  ; shows 
more  of  the  imp  than  of  the  angel.  This  too  when  his  scof- 
fing is  what  wre  call  just,  and  has  some  foundation  on  truth ; 
wdnle  again  the  laughter  of  fools,  that  vain  sound  said  in 
Scripture  to  resemble  the  ‘ crackling  of  thorns  under  the  pot  ’ 
(which  they  cannot  heat,  but  only  soil  and  begrime),  must  be 


VOLTAIRE. 


21 


regarded,  in  these  latter  times,  as  a very  serious  addition  to 
the  sum  of  human  wretchedness  ; nor  perhaps  will  it  always, 
when  the  Increase  of  Crime  in  the  Metropolis  comes  to  he 
debated,  escape  the  vigilance  of  Parliament. 

We  have,  oftener  than  once,  endeavoured  to  attach  some 
meaning  to  that  aphorism,  vulgarly  imputed  to  Shaftesbury, 
which,  however,  we  can  find  nowhere  in  his  works,  that  ridi- 
cule is  the  test  of  truth.  But  of  all  chimeras  that  ever  advanced 
themselves  in  the  shape  of  philosophical  doctrines,  this  is  to 
us  the  most  formless  and  purely  inconceivable.  Did  or  could 
the  unassisted  human  faculties  ever  understand  it,  much  more 
believe  it  ? Surely,  so  far  as  the  common  nrind  can  discern, 
laughter  seems  to  depend  not  less  on  the  laugher  than  on  the 
laughee  ; and  now,  who  gave  laughers  a patent  to  be  always 
just  and  always  omniscient  ? If  the  philosophers  of  Nootka 
Sound  were  pleased  to  laugh  at  the  manoeuvres  of  Cook’s  sea- 
men, did  that  render  these  manoeuvres  useless  ; and  were  the 
seamen  to  stand  idle,  or  to  take  to  leather  canoes,  till  the 
laughter  abated  ? Let  a discerning  public  judge. 

But,  leaving  these  questions  for  the  present,  we  may  observe 
at  least  that  all  great  men  have  been  careful  to  subordinate 
this  talent  or  habit  of  ridicule  ; nay,  in  the  ages  which  we 
consider  the  greatest,  most  of  the  arts  that  contribute  to  it 
have  been  thought  disgraceful  for  freemen,  and  confined  to 
the  exercise  of  slaves..  With  Voltaire,  however,  there  is  no 
such  subordination  visible  : by  nature,  or  by  practice,  mockery 
has  grown  to  be  the  irresistible  bias  of  his  disposition  ; so 
that  for  him,  in  all  matters,  the  first  question  is,  not  what  is 
true,  but  what  is  false  ; not  what  is  to  be  loved,  and  held  fast, 
and  earnestly  laid  to  heart,  but  what  is  to  be  contemned,  and 
derided,  and  sportfully  cast  out  of  doors.  Here  truly  he  earns 
abundant  triumph  as  an  image-breaker,  but  pockets  little  real 
wealth.  Vanity,  with  its  adjuncts,  as  we  have  said,  finds  rich 
solacement ; but  for  aught  better,  there  is  not  much.  Bever- 
ence,  the  highest  feeling  that  man’s  nature  is  capable  of,  the 
crown  of  his  whole  moral  manhood,  and  precious,  like  fine 
gold,  were  it  in  the  rudest  forms,  he  seems  not  to  understand, 
or  have  heard  of  even  by  credible  tradition.  The  glory. of 


22 


VOLTAIRE. 


knowing  and  believing  is  all  but  a stranger  to  him  ; only  with 
that  of  questioning  and  qualifying  is  he  familiar.  Accordingly, 
he  sees  but  a little  way  into  Nature : the  mighty  All,  in  its 
beauty,  and  infinite  mysterious  grandeur,  humbling  the  small 
Me  into  nothingness,  has  never  even  for  moments  been  re- 
vealed to  him  ; only  this  or  that  other  atom  of  it,  and  the 
differences  and  discrepancies  of  these  two,  has  he  looked  into 
and  noted  down.  His  theory  of  the  world,  his  picture  of  man 
and  man’s  life,  is  little  ; for  a Poet  and  Philosopher,  even  piti- 
ful. Examine  it  in  its  highest  developments,  you  find  it  an 
altogether  vulgar  picture  ; simply  a reflex,  with  more  or  fewer 
mirrors,  of  Self  and  the  poor  interests  of  Self.  ‘ The  Divine 
Idea,  that  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appearance,’  was  never 
more  invisible  to  any  man.  He  reads  History  not  with  the 
eye  of  a devout  seer,  or  even  of  a critic ; but  through  a pair 
of  mere  anti-catholic  spectacles.  It  is  not  a mighty  drama, 
enacted  on  the  theatre  of  Infinitude,  with  Suns  for  lamps,  and 
Eternity  as  a background  ; whose  author  is  God,  and  whose 
purport  and  thousandfold  moral  lead  us  up  to  the  c dark  with 
excess  of  light  ’ of  the  Throne  of  God  ; but  a poor  wearisome 
debating  club  dispute,  spun  through  ten  centuiies,  between 
the  Encyclop'edie  and  the  Sorhonne.  Wisdom  or  folly,  noble- 
ness or  baseness,  are  merely  superstitious  or  unbelieving : 
God’s  Universe  is  a larger  Patrimony  of  St.  Peter,  from  which 
it  were  well  and  pleasant  to  hunt  out  the  Pope. 

In  this  way,  Voltaire’s  nature,  which  was  originally  vehe- 
ment rather  than  deep,  came,  in  its  maturity,  in  spite  of  all 
his  wonderful  gifts,  to  be  positively  shallow.  We  find  no 
heroism  of  character  in  him,  from  first  to  last ; nay  there  is 
not,  that  we  know  of,  one  great  thought  in  all  his  six-and-tlrirty 
quartos.  The  high  worth  implanted  in  him  by  Nature,  and 
still  often  manifested  in  his  conduct,  does  not  shine  there  like 
a light,  but  like  a coruscation.  The  enthusiasm,  proper  to 
such  a mind,  visits  him  ; but  it  has  no  abiding  virtue  in  his 
thoughts,  no  local  habitation  and  no  name.  There  is  in  him 
a rapidity,  but  at  the  same  time  a pettiness  ; a certain  violence, 
and  fitful  abruptness,  which  takes  from  him  all  dignity.  Of 
his  emportemeJm  and  tragicomical  explosions,  a thousand 


VOLTAIRE. 


23 


anecdotes  are  on  record  ; neither  is  he,  in  these  cases,  a terrific 
volcano,  hut  a mere  bundle  of  rockets.  He  is  nigh  shooting 
poor  Dorn,  the  Frankfort  constable  ; actually  fires  a pistol, 
into  the  lobby,  at  him  ; and  this,  three  days  after  that  m'elan- 
- choly  business  of  the  ‘CEuure  cle  Poeshie  du  Roi  mon  MaUre. 
had  been  finally  adjusted.  A bookseller,  who,  with  the  natural 
instinct  of  fallen  mankind,  overcharges  him,  receives  from  this 
Philosopher,  by  way  of  payment  at  sight,  a slap  on  the  face.  ‘ 
Poor  Longchamp,  with  considerable  tact,  and  a praiseworthy 
air  of  second-table  respectability,  details  various  scenes  of 
this  kind  : howYoltaire  dashed  away  his  combs,  and  maltreated 
his  wig,  and  otherwise  fiercely  comported  himself,  the  very 
first  morning : how  once,  having  a keenness  of  appetite, 
sharpened  by  walking  and  a diet  of  weak  tea,  he  became  un- 
commonly anxious  for  supper  ; and  Clairaut  and  Madame  du 
Chatelet,  sunk  in  algebraic  calculations,  twice  promised  to 
come  down,  but  still  kept  the  dishes  cooling,  and  the  Philoso- 
pher at  last  desperately  battered  open  their  locked  door  with 
his  foot  ; exclaiming,  “ Vous  etes  done  de  concert  pour  me  faire 
mourir  ? ” — And  yet  Voltaire  had  a true  kindness  of  heart ; all 
his  domestics  and  dependents  loved  him,  and  continued  with 
him.  He  has  many  elements  of  goodness,  but  floating  loosely ; 
nothing1  is  combined  in  steadfast  union.  It  is  true,  he  presents 
in  general  a surface  of  smoothness,  of  culturechregularity  ; yet, 
under  it,  there  is  not  the  silent  rock-bound  strength  of  a 
World,  but  the  wild  tumults  of  a Chaos  are  ever  bursting 
through.  He  is  a man  of  power,  but  not  of  beneficent 
authority  ; w-e  fear,  but  cannot  reverence  him  ; we  feel  him  to 
be  stronger,  not  higher. 

Much  of  this  spiritual  shortcoming  and  perversion  might 
be  due  to  natural  defect ; but  much  of  it  also  is  due  to  the 
age  into  which  he  was  cast.  It  was  an  age  of  discord  and  di- 
vision ; the  approach  of  a grand  crisis  in  human  affairs.  Al- 
ready we  discern  in  it  all  the  elements  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution ; and  v'onder,  so  easily  do  w^e  forget  how  entangled 
and  hidden  the  meaning  of  the  present  generally  is  to  us,  that 
all  men  did  not  foresee  the  comings-on  of  that  fearful  convul- 
sion. On  the  one  hand,  a high  all-attempting  activity  of  In- 


24 


VOLTAIRE. 


tellect  ; tlie  most  peremptory  spirit  of  inquiry  abroad  on 
every  subject ; things  human  and  things  divine  alike  cited 
■without  misgivings  before  the  same  boastful  tribunal  of  so- 
called  Reason,  which  means  here  a merely  argumentative 
Logic  ; the  strong  in  mind  excluded  from  his  regular  influ-  * 
ence  in  the  state,  and  deeply  conscious  of  that  injury.  On  the 
other  hand,  a privileged  few,  strong  in  the  subjection  of  the 
many,  yet  in  itself  weak  ; a piebald,  and  for  most  part  alto- 
gether decrepit  battalion  of  Clergy,  of  purblind  Nobility,  or 
rather  of  Courtiers,  for  as  yet  the  Nobility  is  mostly  on  the 
other  side  : these  cannot  fight  with  Logic,  and  the  day  of 
Persecution  is  wellnigh  done.  The  whole  force  of  law,  in- 
deed, is  still  in  their  hands  ; but  the  far  deeper  force,  which 
alone  gives  efficacy  to  law,  is  hourly  passing  from  them. 
Hope  animates  one  side,  fear  the  other ; and  the  battle  will 
be  fierce  and  desperate.  For  there  is  wit  without  wisdom  on 
the  part  of  the  self-styled  Philosophers  ; feebleness  with  exas- 
peration on  the  part  of  then.’  opponents  ; pride  enough  on  all 
hands,  but  little  magnanimity  ; perhaps  nowhere  any  pure 
love  of  truth,  only  everywhere  the  purest,  most  ardent  love  of 
self.  In  such  a state  of  things,  there  lay  abundant  principles 
of  discord  : these  two  influences  hung  like  fast-gathering  elec- 
tric clouds  as  yet  on  opposite  sides  of  the  horizon,  but  with  a 
malignity  of  aspect,  which  boded,  whenever  they  might  meet, 
a sky  of  fire  and  blackness,  thunderbolts  to  waste  the  earth  ; 
and  the  sun  and  stars,  though  but  for  a season,  to  be  blotted 
out  from  the  heavens.  For  there  is  no  conducting  medium 
to  unite  softly  these  hostile  elements  ; there  is  no  true  virtue, 
no  true  wisdom,  on  the  one  side  or  on  the  other.  Never  per- 
haps was  there  an  epoch,  in  the  history  of  the  world,  when 
universal  corruption  called  so  loudly  for  reform ; and  they 
who  undertook  that  task  were  men  intrinsically  so  worthless. 
Not  by  Gracchi  but  by  Catilines,  not  by  Luthers  but  by  Are- 
tines,  was  Europe  to  be  renovated.  The  task  has  been  a long 
and  bloody  one ; and  is  still  far  from  done. 

In  this  condition  of  affair’s,  what  side  such  a man  as  A ol- 
taire  was  to  take  could  not  be  doubtful.  A\  hether  he  ought 
to  have  taken  either  side  ; whether  he  should  not  rather  have 


VOLTAIRE. 


25 ' 

stationed  himself  in  the  middle  ; the  partisan  of  neither,  per- 
haps hated  by  both  ; acknowledging  and  forwarding,  and  striv- 
ing to  reconcile,  what  truth  wras  in  each ; and  preaching  forth 
a far  deeper  truth,  which,  if  his  own  century  had  neglected  it, 
had  persecuted  it,  future  centuries  would  have  recognised  as 
priceless  : all  this  was  another  question.  Of  no  man,  how- 
ever gifted,  can  rve  require  what  he  has  not  to  give  : but  Vol- 
taire called  himself  Philosopher,  nay  the  Philosopher.  And 
such  has  often,  indeed  generally,  been  the  fate  of  great  men, 
and  Lovers  of  Wisdom  : their  own  age  and  country  have 
treated  them  as  of  no  account ; in  the  great  Corn-Exchange 
of  the  world,  their  pearls  have  seemed  but  spoiled  barley,  and 
been  ignonjiniously  rejected.  Weak  in  adherents,  strong  only 
in  their  faith,  in  their  indestructible  consciousness  of  wTorth 
* and  well-doing,  they  have  silently,  or  in  words,  appealed  to 
coming  ages,  when  their  own  ear  would  indeed  be  shut  to  the 
voice  of  love  and  of  hatred,  but  the  Truth  that  had  dwelt  in 
them  would  speak  with  a voice  audible  to  all.  Bacon  left  his 
works  to  future  generations,  when  some  centuries  should  have 
elapsed.  ‘ Is  it  much  for  me,’  said  Kepler,  in  his  isolation, 
and  extreme  need,  ‘ that  men  should  accept  my  discovery  ? 

1 If  the  Almighty  waited  six  thousand  years  for  one  to  see  what 
1 He  had  made,  I may  surely  wait  two  hundred  for  one  to  un- 
‘ derstand  what.  I have  seen  ! ’ All  this,  and  more,  is  implied 
in  love  of  wisdom,  in  genuine  seeking  of  truth : the  noblest 
function  that  can  be  appointed  for  a man,  but  requiring  also 
the  noblest  man  to  fulfil  it. 

With  Voltaire,  however,  there  is  no  symptom,  perhaps  there 
was  no  conception,  of  such  nobleness  ; the  high  call  for  which, 
indeed,  in  the  existing  state  of  things,  his  intellect  may  have 
had  as  little  the  force  to  discern,  as  his  heart  had  the  force  to 
obey.  He  follows  a simpler  course.  Heedless  of  remoter  is- 
sue_s,  he  adopts  the  cause  of  his  own  party  ; of  that  class  with 
whom  he  lived,  and  was  most  anxious  to  stand  well : he  en- 
lists in  their  ranks,  not  without  hopes  that  he  may  one  day 
rise  to  be  their  general.  A resolution  perfectly  accordant 
with  his  prior  habits,  and  temper  of  mind  ; and  from  which 
his  whole  subsequent  procedure,  and  moral  aspect  as  a man, 


26 


VOLTAIRE. 


naturally  enough,  evolves  itself.  Not  that  we  would  say,  Vol- 
taire was  a mere  prize-fighter  ; one  of  ‘ Heaven’s  Swiss,’  con- 
tending for  a cause  which  he  only  half,  or  not  at  all  approved 
of.  Far  from  it.  Doubtless  he  loved  truth,  doubtless  he 
partially  felt  himself  to  be  advocating  truth ; nay  we  know 
not  that  he  has  ever  yet,  in  a single  instance,  been  convicted 
of  wilfully  perverting  his  belief  ; of  uttering,  in  all  his  contro- 
versies, one  deliberate  falsehood.  Nor  should  this  negative 
praise  seem  an  altogether  slight  one  ; for  greatly  were  it  to  be 
wished  that  even  the  best  of  his  better-intention ed  opponents 
had  always  deserved  the  like.  Nevertheless,  his  love  of  truth 
is  not  that  deep  infinite  love,  which  beseems  a Philosopher  ; 
which  many  ages  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  witness  ; nay, 
of  which  his  own  age  had  still  some  examples.  It  is  a far  in- 
ferior love,  we  should  say,  to  that  of  poor  Jean  Jacques,  half- 
sage, half-maniac  as  he  was  ; it  is  more  a prudent  calculation 
than  a passion.  Voltaire  loves  Truth,  but  chiefly  of  the  tri- 
umphant sort : we  have  no  instance  of  his  fighting  for  a quite 
discrowned  and  outcast  Truth  ; it  is  chiefly  when  she  walks 
abroad,  in  distress  it  may  be,  but  still  with  queenlike  insignia, 
and  knighthoods  and  renown  are  to  be  earned  in  her  battles, 
that  he  defends  her,  that  he  charges  gallantly  against  the  Cades 
and  Tylers.  Nay.  at  all  times,  belief  itself  seems,  with  him,  to 
be  less  the  product  of  Meditation  than  of  Argument.  His  first 
question  with  regard  to  any  doctrine,  perhaps  his  final  test  of 
its  worth  and  genuineness  is  : Can  others  be  convinced  of 
this  ? Can  I truck  it,  in  the  market,  for  power  ? ‘ To  such 

questioners,’  it  has  been  said,  ‘ Truth,  who  buys  not,  and  sells 
‘ not,  goes  on  her  way,  and  makes  no  answer.’ 

In  fact,  if  we  inquire  into  Voltaire’s  ruling  motive,  we  shall 
find  that  it  was  at  bottom  but  a vulgar  one  : ambition,  the  de- 
sire of  ruling,  by  such  means  as  he  had,  over  other  men.  He 
acknowledges  no  higher  divinity  than  Public  Opinion  ; for 
whatever  he  asserts  or  performs,  the  number  of  votes  is  the 
measure  of  strength  and  value.  Yet  let  us  be  just  to  him  ; 
let  us  admit  that  he  in  some  degree  estimates  his  votes,  as 
well  as  counts  them.  If  love  of  fame,  which,  especially  for 
such  a man,  we  can  only  call  another  modification  of  "V  anitv, 


VOLTAIRE. 


-7 


is  always  bis  ruling  passion,  be  bas  a certain  taste  in  gratifying 
it.  His  vanity,  which  cannot  be  extinguished,  is  ever  skilfully 
concealed  ; even  bis  just  claims  are  never  boisterously  insisted 
on  ; throughout  bis  whole  life  be  shows  no  single  feature  of  the 
quack.  Nevertheless,  even  in  the  height  of  his  glory,  he  has  a 
strange  sensitiveness  to  the  judgment  of  the  world  : could  he 
have  contrived  a Dionysius’  Ear,  in  the  Rue  Traversiere,  we 
should  have  found  him  watching  at  it,  night  and  day.  Let 
but  any  little  evil-disposed  Abbe,  any  Ereron  or  Piron, 

Pauvre  Piron , qui  ne  fut  jamais  rien, 

Pas  meme  Academician, 

write  a libel  or  epigram  on  him,  what  a fluster  he  is  in ! We 
grant  he  forbore  much,  in  these  cases  ; manfully  consumed 
his  own  spleen,  and  sometimes  long  held  his  peace  ; but  it  was 
his  part  to  have  always  done  so.  Why  should  such  a man 
ruffle  himself  with  the  spite  of  exceeding  small  persons  ? Why 
not  let  these  poor  devils  write  ; why  should  not  they  earn  a 
dishonest  penny,  at  his  expense,  if  they  had  no  readier  way  ? 
But  Voltaire  cannot  part  with  his  ‘ voices,’  his  ‘ most  sweet 
voices : ’ for  they  are  his  gods  ; take  these,  and  what  has  he 
left '?  Accordingly,  in  literature  and  morals,  in  all  his  comings 
and  goings,  we  find  him  striving,  with  a religious  care,  to  sail 
strictly  with  the  wind.  In  Art,  the  Parisian  Parterre  is  his 
court  of  last  appeal  : he  consults  the  Cafe  de  Procope,  on  his 
wisdom  or  his  folly,  as  if  it  were  a Delphic  Oracle.  The  fol- 
lowing adventure  belongs  to  his  fifty-fourth  year,  when  his  fame 
might  long  have  seemed  abundantly  established.  We  trans- 
late from  the  Sieur  Longchamp’s  thin,  half-roguish,  mildly 
obsequious,  most  lackey-like  Narrative  : 


‘Judges  could  appreciate  the  merits  of  Semiramis,  which 
has  continued  on  the  stage,  and  always  been  seen  there  with 
pleasure.  Every  one  knows  how  the  two  principal  parts  in 
this  piece  contributed  to  the  celebrity  of  two  great  tragedians, 
Mademoiselle  Dumesnil  and  M.  le  Kain.  The  enemies  of  M. 
de  Voltaire  renewed  their  attempts  in  the  subsequent  repre- 
sentations ; but  it  only  the  better  confirmed  his  triumph. 


28 


VOLTAIRE. 


Piron,  to  console  himself  for  tlie  defeat  of  his  party,  had  re- 
course  to  his  usual  remedy  ; pelting  the  piece  with  some  paltry 
epigrams,  which  did  it  no  harm. 

‘ Nevertheless,  M.  de  Voltaire,  who  always  loved  to  correct 
his  works,  and  perfect  them,  became  desirous  to  leam,  more 
specially  and  at  first  hand,  what  good  or  ill  the  public  were 
saying  of  his  Tragedy  ; and  it  appeared  to  him  that  he  could 
nowhere  learn  it  better  than  in  the  Cafe,  de  Procope,  which 
was  also  called  the  Antre  (Cavern)  de  Procope,  because  it  was 
very  dark  even  in  full  day,  and  ill-lighted  in  the  evenings  ; 
and  because  you  often  saw  there  a set  of  lank,  sallow  poets, 
who  had  somewhat  the  ah’  of  apparitions.  In  this  Cafe, 
which  fronts  the  Comedie  Franchise,  had  been  held,  for  more 
than  sixty  years,  the  tribunal  of  those  self-called  Aristarchs, 
who  fancied  they  could  pass  sentence  without  appeal,  on 
plays,  authors  and  actors.  M.  de  Voltaire  wished  to  compear 
there,  but  in  disguise  and  altogether  incognito.  It  was  on 
coming  out  from  the  playhouse  that  the  judges  usually  pro- 
ceeded thither,  to  open  what  they  called  then'  great  sessions. 
On  the  second  niglit-of  Semiramis,  he  borrowed  a clergyman's 
clothes  ; dressed  himself  in  cassock  and  long  cloak  ; black 
stockings,  girdle,  bands,  breviary  itself  ; nothing  was  forgot- 
ten. He  clapt  on  a large  peruke,  unpowdered,  very  ill  combed, 
which  covered  more  than  the  half  of  his  cheeks,  and  left 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  end  of  a long  nose.  The  peruke 
was  surmounted  by  a large  three-cornered  hat,  corners  half 
bruised-in.  In  this  equipment,  then,  the  author  of  Semi- 
rarnis  proceeded  on  foot  to  the  Cafe  de  Procope,  where  he 
squatted  himself  in  a corner  ; and  waiting  for  the  end  of  the 
play,  called  for  a bavaroise,  a small  roll  of  bread  and  the 
Gazette.  It  wras  not  long  till  those  familiars  of  the  Parterre 
and  tenants  of  the  Cafe  stept  in.  They  instantly  began  dis- 
cussing the  new  Tragedy.  Its  partisans  and  its  adversaries 
pleaded  their  cause,  with  warmth  ; each  giving  his  reasons. 
Impartial  persons  also  spoke  their  sentiment  ; and  repeated 
some  fine  verses  of  the  piece.  During  all  this  time,  M.  de 
Voltaire,  with  spectacles  on  nose,  head  stooping  over  the 
Gazette  which  he  pretended  to  be  reading,  was  listening  to 
the  debate  ; profiting  by  reasonable  observations,  suffering 
much  to  hear  very  absurd  ones,  and  not  answer  them,  which 
irritated  him.  Thus  during  an  hour  and  a half,  had  he  the 
courage  and  patience  to  hear  Semiramis  talked  of  and  babbled 
of,  without  speaking  a word.  At  last,  all  these  pretended 
judges  of  the  fame  of  authors  having  gone  their  ways,  with- 


VOLTAIRE. 


29 


out  converting  one  another,  M.  de  Voltaire  also  went  off; 
took  a coach  in  the  Rue  Mazarine,  ancl  returned  home  about 
eleven  o’clock.  Though  I knew  of  his  disguise,  I confess  I 
was  struck  and  almost  frightened  to  see  him  accoutred  so.  I 
took  him  for  a spectre,  or  shade  of  Ninus,  that  was  appearing 
to  me  ; or,  at  least,  for  one  of  those  ancient  Irish  debaters, 
arrived  at  the'  end  of  their  career,  after  wearing  themselves 
out  in  school-syllogisms.  I helped  him  to  doff  all  that  ap- 
paratus, which  I carried  next  morning  to  its  true  owner, — a 
Doctor  of  the  Sorbonne.’ 

This  stroke  of  art,  which  cannot  in  anywise  pass  for  sub- 
lime might  have  its  uses  and  rational  purpose  in  one  case, 
and  only  in  one  : -if  Semiramis  rvas  meant  to  be  a popular’ 
show,  that  was  to  live  or  die  by  its  first  impression  on  the 
idle  multitude  ; which  accordingly  we  must  infer  to  have 
been  its  real,  at  least  its  chief  destination.  In  any  other  case, 
we  cannot  but  consider  this  Haroun-Alraschid  visit  to  the 
Cafe  de  Procope  as  questionable,  and  altogether  inadequate. 
If  Semiramis  was  a Poem,  a living  Creation,  won  from  the 
empyrean  by  the  silent  power  and  long-continued  Prome- 
thean toil  of  its  author,  what  could  the  Cafe  de  Procope  know 
of  it,  what  could  all  Paris  know  of  it,  ‘ on  the  second  night  ? ’ 
Had  it  been  a Milton’s  Paradise  Lost,  they  might  have  de- 
spised it  till  after  the  fiftieth  year  ! True,  the  object  of  the 
Poet  is,  and  must  be,  to  ‘ instruct  by  pleasing,’  yet  not  by 
pleasing  this  man  and  that  man  ; only  by  pleasing  man,  by 
speaking  to  the  pure  nature  of  man,  can  any  real  ‘ instruc- 
tion,’ in  this  sense,  be  conveyed.  Vain  does  it  seem  to  search 
for  a judgment  of  this  kind  in  the  largest  Cafe,  in  the  largest 
Kingdom,  ‘on  the  second  night,’  The  deep,  clear  conscious- 
ness of  one  mind  comes  infinitely  nearer  it,  than  the  loud 
outcry  of  a million  that  have  no  such  consciousness  ; whose 
‘talk,’  or  whose  ‘babble,’ but  distracts  the  listener;  and  to 
most  genuine  Poets  has,  from  of  old,  been  in  a great  measure 
indifferent.  For  the  multitude  of  voices-  is  no  authority ; a 
thousand  voices  may  not,  strictly  examined,  amount  to  one 
vote.  Mankind  in  this  world  are  divided  into  flocks,  and 
follow  their  several  bell-wethers.  Now,  it  is  well  known,  let 


30 


VOLTAIRE. 


the  bell-wether  rush  through  any  gap,  the  rest  rush  after  him, 
were  it  into  bottomless  quagmires.  Nay,  so  conscientious  are 
sheep  in  this  particular,  as  a quaint  naturalist  and  moralist 
has  noted,  ‘if  you  hold  a stick  before  the  wether,  so  that  he 
‘ is  forced  to  vault  in  his  passage,  the  w'hole  flock  will  do  the 
‘ like  when  the  stick  is  withdrawn  ; and  the  thousandth  sheep 
‘ shall  be  seen  vaulting  impetuously  over  air,  as  the  first  did 
‘over  an  otherwise  impassable  barrier  ! ’ A farther  peculiarity, 
which,  in  consulting  Acts  of  Parliament,  and  other  authentic 
records,  not  only  as  regards  ‘ Catholic  Disabilities,’  but  many 
other  matters,  you  may  find  curiously  verified  in  the  human 
species  also  !-— On  the  whole,  we  must  consider  this  excursion 
to  Procope’s  literary  Cavern  as  illustrating;  Voltaire  in  rather 
pleasant  style  ; but  nowise  much  to  his  honour.  Fame  seems 
a far  too  high,  if  not  the  highest  object  with  him  ; nay  some- 
times even  popularity  is  clutched  at : we  see  no  heavenly 
polestar  in  this  voyage  of  his  ; but  only  the  guidance  of  a 
proverbially  uncertain  wind. 

Voltaire  reproachfully  says  of  St.  Louis,  that  ‘he  ought  to 
have  been  above  his  age  ; ’ but  in  his  own  case  we  can  find 
few  symptoms  of  such  heroic  superiority.  The  same  perpetual 
appeal  to  his  contemporaries,  the  same  intense  regard  to  rep- 
utation, as  he  viewed  it,  prescribes  for  him  both  his  enter- 
prises and  his  manner  of  conducting  them.  His  aim  is  to 
please  the  more  enlightened,  at  least  the  politer  part  of  the 
world  ; and  he  offers  them  simply  what  they  most  wish  for, 
be  it  in  theatrical  shows  for  their  pastime.  Or  iu  sceptical  doc- 
trines for  their  edification.  For  this  latter  purpose,  Bidicule 
is  the  weapon  he  selects,  and  it  suits  him  well.  This  was  not 
the  age  of  deep  thoughts ; no  Due  de  Bichelieu,  no  Prince 
Conti,  no  Frederick  the  Great  would  have  listened  to  such  : 
only  sportful  contempt,  and  a thin  conversational  logic  will 
avail.  There  may  be  wool-quilts,  winch  the  lath-sword  of 
Harlequin  will  pierce,  when  the  club  of  Hercules  has  re- 
bounded from  them  in  vain.  As  little  was  this  an  age  for 
high  virtues  ; no  heroism,  in  any  form/  is  required,  or  even 
acknowledged  ; but  only,  in  all  forms,  a certain  bienscance. 
To  this  rule  also  Voltaire  readily  conforms  ; indeed,  he  finds 


VOLTAIRE. 


9 1 

oi 

no  small  advantage  in  it.  For  a las  public  morality  not  omy 
allows  him  the  indulgence  of  many  a little  private  vice,  and 
brings  him  in  this  and  the  other  windfall  of  menus  plaisirs, 
but  opens  him  the  readiest  resource  in  many  enterprises  of 
danger.  Of  all  men,  Voltaire  has  the  least  disposition  to  in- 
crease the  Army  of  Martyrs.  No  testimony  will  he  seal  with 
bis  blood  ; scarcely  any  will  he  so  much  as  sign  with  ink. 
His  obnoxious  doctrines,  as  we  have  remarked,  he  publishes 
under  a thousand  concealments  ; with  underplots,  and  wheels 
within  wheels  ; so  that  his  whole  track  is  in  darkness,  only 
his  works  see  the  light.  No  Proteus  is  so  nimble,  or  assumes 
so  many  shapes  : if,  by  rare  chance,  caught  sleeping,  he  whisks 
through  the  smallest  hole,  and  is  out  of  sight,  while  the  noose 
is  getting  ready.  Let  his  judges  take  him  to  task,  he  will 
shuffle  and  evade  ; if  directly  questioned,  he  will  even  lie.  In 
regard  to  this  last  point,  the  Marquis  de  Condorcet  has  set  up 
a defence  for  him,  which  has  at  least  the  merit  of  being  frank 
enough. 

‘ The  necessity  of  lying  in  order  to  disavow  any  work,’  says 
he,  ‘is  an  extremity  equally  repugnant  to  conscience  and  no- 
bleness of  character  : but  the  crime  lies  with  those  unjust 
men,  who. render  such  disavowal  necessary  to  the  safety  of 
him  whom  they  force  to  it.  If  you  have  made  a crime  of  what 
is  not  one  ; if,  by  absurd  or  by  arbitrary  laws,  you, have  in- 
fringed the  natural  right,  which  all  men  have,  not  only  to  form 
an  opinion,  but  to  render  it  public  ; then  you  deserve  to  lose 
the  right  which  every  man  has  of  hearing  the  truth  from  the 
mouth  of  another  ; a right,  which  is  the  sole  basis  of  that  rig- 
orous obligation,  not  to  lie.  If  it  is  not  permitted  to  deceive, 
the  reason  is,  that  to  deceive  any  one,  is  to  do  him  a wrong, 
or  expose  yourself  to  do  him  one  ; but  a wrong  supposes  a 
right  ; and  no  one  has  the  right  of  seeking  to  secure  himself 
the  means  of  committing  an  injustice.’ 1 

It  is  strange,  how  scientific  discoveries  do  maintain  them- 
selves : here,  quite  in  other  hands,  and  in  an  altogether  differ- 
ent dialect,  we  have  the  old  Catholic  doctrine,  if  it  ever  was 
more  than  a Jesuitic  one,  ‘ that  faith  need  not  be  kept  with 
1 Vie  de  Voltaire,  p.  32. 


32 


VOLTAIRE. 


heretics.’  Truth,  it  appears,  is  too  precious  an  article  for  our 
enemies  ; is  fit  only  for  friends,  for  those  who  will  pay  us  if 
we  tell  it  them.  It  may  he  observed,  however,  that  granting 
Condorcet’s  premises,  this  doctrine  also  must  be  granted,  as 
indeed  is  usual  with  that  sharp-sighted  writer.  If  the  doing 
of  right  depends  on  the  receiving  of  it ; if  our  fellow-men,  in 
this  world,  are  not  persons,  but  mere  things,  that  for  services 
bestowed  will  return  services, — steam-engines  that  will  manu- 
facture calico,  if  we  put  in  coals  and  water,— then  doubtless, 
the  calico  ceasing,  our  coals  and  water  may  also  rationally 
cease  ; the  questioner  threatening  to  injure  us  for  the  truth, 
we  may  rationally  tell  him  lies.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
our  fellow-man  is  no  steam-engine,  but  a man  ; united  with 
us,  and  with  all  men,  and  with  the  Maker  of  all  men,  in  sacred, 
mysterious,  indissoluble  bonds,  in  an  All-Embracing  Love, 
that  encircles  alike  the  seraph  and  the  glow-worm  ; then  will 
our  duties  to  him  rest  on  quite  another  basis  than  this  very 
humble  one  of  quid  pro  quo  ; an'd  the  Marquis  de  Condorcet’s 
conclusion  will  be  false  ; and  might,  in  its  practical  extensions, 
be  infinitely  pernicious. 

Such  principles  and  habits,  too  lightly  adopted  by  Voltaire, 
acted,  as  it  seems  to  us,  with  hostile  effect  on  his  moral  nat- 
ure, not  originally  of  the  noblest  sold,  but  which,  under  other 
influences,  might  have  attained  to  far  greater  nobleness.  As 
it  is,  we  see  in  him  simply  a Man  of  the  World,  such  as  Paris 
and  the  eighteenth  century  produced  and  approved  of  : a po- 
lite, attractive,  most  cultivated,  but  essentially  self  interested 
man  ; not  without  highly  amiable  qualities  ; indeed,  with  a 
general  disposition  which  we  could  have  accepted  without 
disappointment  in  a mere  Man  of  the  World,  but  must  find 
very  defective,  sometimes  altogether  out  of  place,  in  a Poet 
and  Philosopher.  Above  this  character  of  a Parisian  ‘honour- 
able man,’  he  seldom  or  never  rises  ; nay  sometimes  we  find 
him  hovering  on  the  very  lowest,  boundaries  of  it,  or  perhaps 
even  fairly  below  it.  We  shall  nowise  accuse  him  of  excessive 
regard  for  money,  of  any  wish  to  shine  .by  the  influence  of 
mere  wealth  : let  those  commercial  speculations,  including 
even  the  victualling-contracts,  pass  for  laudable  prudence,  for 


VOLTAIRE. 


33 


love  of  independence,  and  of  the  power  to  do  good.  But  what 
are  we  to  make  of  that  hunting  after  pensions,  and  even  after 
mere  titles  ? There  is  an  assiduity  displayed  here,  which 
sometimes  almost  verges  towards  sneaking.  Well  might  it 
provoke  the  scorn  of  Aliieri  ; for  there  is  nothing  better  than 
the  spirit  of  ‘ a French  plebeian  ’ apparent  in  it.  Much,  we 
know,  very  much  should  be  allowed  for  difference  of  national 
manners,  which  in  general  mainly  determine  the  meaning  of 
such  things  : nevertheless,  to  our  insular  feelings,  that  famous 
Trajan  est-il  content  ? especially  when  we  consider  who  the 
Trajan  was,  will  always  remain  an  unfortunate  saying.  The 
more  so,  as  Trajan  himself  turned  his  back  on  it,  without 
answer  ; declining,  indeed,  through  life,  to  listen  to  the  voice 
of  this  charmer,  or  disturb  his  own  ‘ time  paisible,’  for  one 
moment,  though  with  the  best  philosopher  in  Nature.  Nay, 
Pompadour  herself  was  applied  to  ; and  even  some  consider- 
able progress  made,  by  that  underground  passage,  had  not  an 
envious  hand  too  soon  and  fatally  intervened.  D’Alembert 
says,  there  are  two  things  that  can  reach  the  top  of  a pyramid, 
the  eagle  and  the  reptile.  Apparently,  Voltaire  wished  to 
combine  both  methods  ; and  he  had,  with  one  of  them,  but 
indifferent  success. 

The  truth  is,  we  are  trying  Voltaire  by  too  high  a standard  ; 
comparing  him  with  an  ideal,  which  he  himself  never  strove 
after,  perhaps  never  seriously  aimed  at.  He  is  no  great  Man, 
but  only  a great  Persijieur  ; a man  for  whom  life,  and  all  that 
pertains  to  it,  has,  at  best,  but  a despicable  meaning ; who 
meets  its  difficulties  not  with  earnest  force,  but  with  gay  agil- 
ity ; and  is  found  always  at  the  top,  less  by  power  in  swim- 
ming, than  by  lightness  in  floating.  Take  him  in  his  charac- 
ter, forgetting  that  any  other  was  ever  ascribed  to  him,  and 
we  find  that  he  enacted  it  almost  to  perfection.  Never  man 
better  understood  the  whole  secret  of  Persiflage ; meaning 
thereby  not  only  the  external  faculty  of  polite  contempt,  but 
that  art  of  general  inward  contempt,  by  vfliich  a man  of  this 
sort  endeavours  to  subject  the  circumstances  of  his  Destiny  to 
his  Volition,  and  be,  what  is  the  instinctive  effort  of  all  men, 
though  in  the  midst  of  material  Necessity,  morally  Free.  Vol- 
3 


34 


VOLTAIRE. 


taire’s  latent  derision  is  as  light,  copious  and  all-pervading  as 
the  derision  which  he  utters.  Nor  is  this  so  simple  an  attain- 
ment as  we  might  fancy ; a certain  kind  and  degree  of  Stoi- 
cism, or  approach  to  Stoicism,  is  necessary  for  the  completed 
Persifieur  ; as  for  moral,  or  even  practical  completion,  in  any 
other  way.  The  most  indifferent-minded  man  is  not  by  nature 
indifferent  to  his  own  pain  and  pleasure  : this  is  an  indifference 
which  he  must  by  some  method  study  to  acquire,  or  acquire 
the  show  of ; and  which,  it  is  fair  to  say,  Voltaire  manifests 
in  a rather  respectable  degree.  Without  murmuring,  he  has 
reconciled  himself  to  most  things : the  human  lot,  in  this 
lower  world,  seems  a strange  business,  yet,  on  the'whole,  with 
more  of  the  farce  in  it  than  of  the  tragedy  ; to  him  it  is  nowise 
heart-rending,  than  this  Planet  of  ours  should  be  sent  sailing 
through  Space,  like  a miserable  aimless  Ship-of-Fools,  and  he 
himself  be  a fool  among  the  rest,  and  only  a very  little  wiser 
than  they.  He  does  not,  like  Bolingbroke,  ‘ patronise  Provi- 
dence,’ though  such  sayings  as  Si  Dieu  n’existait  pas,  il  fau- 
drait  Vinventer,  seem  now  and  then  to  indicate  a tendency  of 
that  sort : but,  at  all  events,  he  never  openly  levies  war  against 
Heaven  ; well  knowing  that  the  time  spent  in  frantic  male- 
diction, directed  thither , might  be  spent  otherwise  with  more 
profit.  There  is,  truly,  no  Werterism  in  him,  either  in  its  bad  or 
its  good  sense.  If  he  sees  no  unspeakable  majesty  in  heaven 
and  earth,  neither  does  he  see  any  unsufferable  horror  there. 
His  view  of  the  world  is  a cool,  gently  scornful,  altogether 
prosaic  one  : his  sublimest  Apocalypse  of  Nature  lies  in  the 
microscope  and  telescope  ; the  Earth  is  a place  for  producing 
corn  ; the  Starry  Heavens  are  admirable  as  a nautical  time- 
keeper. Yet,  like  a prudent  man,  he  has  adjusted  himself  to 
his  condition,  such  as  it  is  : he  does  not  clraunt  any  Miserere 
over  human  life,  calculating  that  no  charitable  dole,  but  only 
laughter,  would  be  the  reward  of  such  an  enterprise  ; does 
not  hang  or  drown  himself,  clearly  understanding  that  death 
of  itself  will  soon  save  him  that  trouble.  Affliction,  it  is  true, 
has  not  for  him  any  precious  jewel  in  its  head  ; on  the  con- 
trary, it  is  an  unmixed  nuisance  ; yet,  happily,  not  one  to  be 
howled  over,  so  much  as  one  to  be  speedily  removed  out  of 


VOLTAIRE. 


35 


sight : if  he  does  not  learn  from  it  Humility,  and  the  sublime 
lesson  of  Resignation,  neither  does  it  teach  him  hard-hearted- 
ness and  sickly  discontent ; but  he  bounds  lightly  over  it, 
leaving  both  the  jewel  and  the  toad  at  a safe  distance  behind 
him. 

Nor  was  Voltaire’s  history  without  perplexities  enough  to 
keep  this  principle  in  exercise  ; to  try  whether  in  life,  as  in 
literature,  the  ridicul  um  were  really  better  than  the  acre.  We 
must  own,  that  on  no  occasion  does  it  altogether  fail  him, 
never  does  he  seem  perfectly  at  a nonplus  ; no  adventure  is 
so  hideous,  that  he  cannot,  in  the  long  run,  find  some  means 
to  laugh  at  it,  and  forget  it.  Take,  for  instance,  that  last  ill- 
omened  visit  of  his  to  Frederick  the  Great.  This  was,  prob- 
ably, the  most  mortifying  incident  in  Voltaire’s  whole  life : 
an  open  experiment,  in  the  sight  of  all  Europe,  to  ascertain 
whether  French  Philosophy  had  virtue  enough  in  it  to  found 
any  friendly  union,  in  such  circumstances,  even  between  its 
great  master  and  his  most  illustrious  disciple  ; and  an  experi- 
ment which  answered  in  the  negative.  As  was  natural  enough  ; 
for  Vanity  is  of  a divisive,  not  of  a uniting  nature  ; and  be- 
tween the  King  of  Letters  and  the  King  of  Armies  there  ex- 
isted no  other  tie.  They  should  have  kept  up  an  interchange 
of  flattery,  from  afar:  gravitating  towards  one  another  like 
•celestial  luminaries,  if  they  reckoned  themselves  such  ; yet 
always  with  a due  centrifugal  force  ; for  if  either  shot  madly 
from  his  sphere,  nothing  but  collision,  and  concussion,  and 
mutual  recoil,  could  be  the  consequence.  On  the  whole,  we 
must  pity  Frederick,  environed  with  that  cluster  of  Philoso- 
phers : doubtless  he  meant  rather  well ; yet  the  French  at 
Rosbach,  with  guns  in  their  hands,  were  but  a small  matter, 
compared  with  these  French  in  Sans-Souci.  Maupertuis  sits 
sullen,  monosyllabic  ; gloomy  like  the  bear  of  his  own  arctic 
zone  : Voltaire  is  the  mad  piper  that  will  make  him  dance  to 
tunes  and  amuse  the  people.  In  this  royal  circle,  with  its 
parasites  and  bashaws,  what  heats  and  jealousies  must  there 
not  have  been  ; what  secret  heartburnings,  smooth-faced  mal- 
ice, plottings,  counter-plottings,  and  laurel-water  pharmacy, 
in  all  its  branches,  before  the  ring  of  etiquette  fairly  burst 


30 


VOLTAIRE. 


asunder,  and  tlie  establishment,  so  to  speak,  exploded ! Yet 
over  all  these  distressing  matters  Voltaire  has  thrown  a soft 
veil  of  gaiety ; he  remembers  neither  Dr.  Akakia,  nor  Dr. 
Akakia’s  patron,  with  any  animosity  ; but  merely  as  actors  in 
the  grand  farce  of  life  along  with  him,  a new  scene  of  which 
has  now  commenced,  quite  displacing  the  other  from  the  stage. 
The  arrest  at  Frankfort,  indeed,  is  a sour  morsel ; but  this  too 
he  swallows,  with  an  effort,  Frederick,  as  we  are  given  to 
understand,  had  these  whims  by  kind ; was,  indeed,  a won- 
derful scion  from  such,  a stock  ; for  what  could  equal  the  ava- 
rice, malice  and  rabid  snappishness  of  old  Frederick  ’W  illiam 
the  father  ? 

‘He  had  a minister  at  the  Hague,  named  Luicius,’  says  the 
wit ; ‘ this  Luicius  wras,  of  all  royal  ministers  extant,  the  worst 
paid.  The  poor  man,  with  a Hew  to  warm  himself,  had  a few 
trees  cut  down,  in  the  garden  of  Honslardik,  then  belonging 
to  the  House  of  Prussia  ; immediately  thereafter  he  received 
despatches  from  the  King  his  master,  keeping  back  a year  of 
his  salary.  Luicius,  in  despair,  cut  his  throat  with  the  only 
razor  he  had  ( aoec  le  seul  rasoir  qu’il  eat ) ; an  old  lackey  came 
to  his  assistance,  and  unfortunately  saved  his  life.  At  an  after 
period,  I myself  saw  his  Excellency  at  the  Hague,  and  gave 
him  an  alms  at  the  gate  of  that  Palace  called  La  Vieille  Cour, 
which  belongs  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  where  this  unhappy 
Ambassador  had  lived  twelve  years.’ 

With  the  Roi-Philosophe  himself  Voltaire,  in  a little  while, 
recommences  correspondence  ; and,  to  all  appearance,  pro- 
ceeds quietly  in  his  office  of  ‘ buckwasher,’  that  is,  of  verse-cor- 
rector to  his  Majesty,  as  if  nothing  whatever  had  happened. 

Again,  what  human  pen  can  describe  the  troubles  this  un- 
fortunate philosopher  had  with  his  women?  A gadding, 
feather-brained,  capricious,  old-coquettish,  embittered  and 
embittering  set  of  wantons  from  the  earliest  to  the  last ! 
Widow  Denis,  for  example,  that  disobedient  XieCe.  whom  he 
rescued  from  furnished  lodgings  and  spare  diet,  into  pomp 
and  plenty,  how  did  she  pester  the  last  stage  of  his  existence, 
for  twenty-four  years  long  ! Blind  to  the  peace  and  roses  of 
Ferney  ; ever  hankering  and  fretting  after  Parisian  display  ; 


VOLTAIRE. 


37 


not  without  flirtation,  though  advanced  in  life  ; losing  money 
at  play,  and  purloining  wherewith  to  make  it  good  ; scolding 
his  servants,  quarrelling  with  his  secretaries,  so  that  the  too- 
indulgent  uncle  must  turn  off  his  beloved  Collini,  nay  almost 
be  run  through  the  body  by  him,  for  her  sake  ! The  good 
Wagniere,  who  succeeded  this  fiery  Italian  in  the  secretary- 
ship, and  loved  Voltaire  with  a most  creditable  affection,  can- 
not, though  a simple,  humble  and  philanthropic  mau,  speak 
of  Madame  Denis  without  visible  overflowings  of  gall.  He 
openly  accuses  her  of  hastening  her  uncle’s  death  by  her  im- 
portunate stratagems  to  keep  him  in  Paris,  where  was  her 
heaven.  Indeed  it  is  clear  that,  his  goods  and  chattels  once 
made  sure  of,  her  chief  care  was  that  so  fiery  a patient  might 
die  soon  enough  ; or,  at  best,  according  to  her  own  confes- 
sion, ‘how  she  was  to  get  him  buried.’  We  have  known 
superannuated  grooms,  nay  effete  saddle-horses,  regarded 
with  more  real  sympathy  in  their  home,  than  wras  the  best  of 
uncles  by  the  worst  of  nieces.  Had  not  this  surprising  old 
man  retained  the  sharpest  judgment,  and  the  gayest,  easiest 
temper,  his  last  days  and  last  years  must  have  been  a con- 
tinued scene  of  violence  and  tribulation. 

Little  better,  w^orse  in  several  respects,  though  at  a time 
when  he  could  better  endure  it,  was  the  far-famed  Marquise 
du  Chatelet.  Many  a tempestuous  day  and  wakeful  night 
had  he  with  that  scientific  and  too-fascinating  shrew.  She 
speculated  in  mathematics  and  metaphysics ; but  was  an 
adept  also  in  far,  very  far  different  acquirements.  Setting 
aside  its  whole  criminality,  which,  indeed,  perhaps  went  for 
little  there,  this  literary  amour  wears  but  a mixed  aspect ; 
short  sun- gleams,  with  long  tropical  tornadoes  ; touches  of 
guitar-music,  soon  followed  by  Lisbon  earthquakes.  Marmon- 
tel,  we  remember,  speaks  of  knives  being  used,  at  least  bran- 
dished, and  for  quite  other  purposes  than  carving.  Madame 
la  Marquise  was  no  saint,  in  any  sense  ; but  rather  a Socrates’ 
spouse,  who  would  keep  patience,  and  the  whole  philosophy  of 
gaiety,  in  constant  practice.  Like  Queen  Elizabeth,  if  she  had 
the  talents  of  a man,  she  had  more  than  the  caprices  of  a woman. 

We  shall  take  only  one  item,  and  that  a small  one,  in  this 


33 


VOLTAIRE. 


mountain  of  misery  : her  strange  habits  and  methods  of  loco- 
motion. She  is  perpetually  travelling  : a peaceful  philosopher 
is  lugged  over  the  world,  to  Cirev,  to  Luneville,  to  that  pied 
d terre  in  Paris  ; resistance  avails  not  ; here,  as  in  so  many 
other  cases,  il  faut  se  ranger.  Sometimes,  precisely  on  the 
eve  of  such  a departure,  her  domestics,  exasperated  by  hunger 
and  ill  usage,  will  strike  work,  in  a body  ; and  a new  set  has 
to  be  collected  at  an  hour’s  warning.  Then  Madame  has  been 
known  to  keep  the  postilions  cracking  and  sacre-ing  at  the 
gate  from  dawn  till  dewy  eve,  simply  because  she  was  playing 
cards,  and  the  games  went  against  her.  But  figure  a lean  and 
vivid-tempered  philosopher  starting  from  Paris  at  last ; under 
cloud  of  night ; during  hard  frost ; in  a huge  lumbering  coach, 
or  rather  wagon,  compared  with  which,  indeed,  the  general- 
ity of  modern  wagons  were  a luxurious  conveyance.  "With 
four  starved,  and  perhaps  spavined  hacks,  he  slowly  sets 
forth,  ‘ under  a mountain  of  bandboxes  : ’ at  his  side  sits  the 
wandering  virago  ; in  front  of  him,  a serving-maid,  with  addi- 
tional bandboxes  ‘ et  divers  effets  de  sa  ma'dresse.’  At  the  next 
stage,  the  postilions  have  to  be  beat  up  ; they  come  out  swear- 
ing. Cloaks  and  fur-pelisses  avail  little  against  the  January 
cold ; ‘ time  and  hours  ’ are,  once  more,  the  only  hope  ; 
but,  lo,  at  the  tenth  mile,  this  Tyburn-coach ' breaks  down! 
One  many-voiced  discordant  wail  shrieks  through  the  soli- 
tude, making  night  hideous, — but  in  vain  ; the  axletree  has 
given  way,  the  vehicle  has  overset,  and  marchionesses,  cham- 
bermaids, bandboxes  and  philosophers,  are  weltering  in  inex- 
tricable chaos. 

‘ The  carriage  was  in  the  stage  next  Nangis,  about  half-way 
to  that  town,  when  the  hind  axletree  broke,  and  it  tumbled 
on  the  road,  to  M.  de  Voltaire’s  side  : Madame  du  Chatelet, 
and  her  maid,  fell  above  him,  with  all  their  bundles  and  band- 
boxes,  for  these  were  not  tied  to  the  front,  but  only  piled  up 
on  both  hands  of  the  maid  ; and  so,  observing  the  laws  of 
equilibrium  and  gravitation  of  bodies,  they  rushed  towards 
the  corner  where  M.  de  Voltaire  lay  squeezed  together.  Under 
so  many  burdens,  which  half  suffocated  him,  he  kept  shout- 
ing bitterly  ( poussait  des  cris  aigus)  ; but  it  was  impossible  to 
change  place  ; all  had  to  remain  as  it  was,  till  the  two  lackeys, 


VOLTAIRE. 


39 


one  of  whom  was  hurt  by  the  fall,  could  come  up,  with  the 
postilions,  to  disencumber  the  vehicle  ; they  first  drew  out  all 
the  luggage,  next  the  women,  then  M.  de  Voltaire.  Nothing 
could  be  got  out  except  by  the  top,  that  is,  by  the  coach-door, 
v'hicli  now  opened  upwards  ; one  of  the  lackeys  and  a pos- 
tilion clambering  aloft,  and  fixing  themselves  on  the  body  of 
the  vehicle,  drew  them  up,  as  from  a well  ; seizing  the  first 
limb  that  came  to  hand,  whether  arm  or  leg  ; and  then  passed 
them  down  to  the  two  stationed  below,  who  set  them  finally 
on  the  ground.’  1 

What  would  Dr.  Kitchiner,  with  his  Travellers  Oracle,  have 
said  to  all  this?  For  there  is  snow  on  the  ground  : and  four 
peasants  must  be  roused  from  a village  half  a league  off,  be- 
fore that  accursed  vehicle  can  so  much  as  be  lifted  from  its 
beam-ends ! Vain  it  is  for  Longchamp,  far  in  advance,  shel- 
tered in  a hospitable  though  half-dismantled  chateau,  to  pluck 
pigeons  and  be  in  haste  to  roast  them : they  will  never,  never 
be  eaten  to  supper,  scarcely  to  breakfast  next  morning  ! — Nor 
is  it  now  only,  but  several  times,  that  this  unhappy  axletree 
plays  them  foul ; nay  once,  beggared  by  Madame’s  gambling, 
they  have  not  cash  to  pay  for  mending  it,  and  the  smith, 
though  they  are  in  keenest  flight,  almost  for  their  lives,  will 
not  trust  them. 

We  imagine  that  these  are  trying  things  for  any  philoso- 
pher. Of  the  thousand  other  more  private  and  perennial 
grievances  ; of  certain  discoveries  and  explanations,  especial- 
ly, which  it  still  seems  surprising  that  human  philosophy 
could  have  tolerated,  we  make  no  mention  ; indeed,  with  re- 
gard to  the  latter,  few  earthly  considerations  could  tempt  a 
Reviewer  of  sensibility  to  mention  them  in  this  place. 

The  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  and  her  husband,  have  been 
much  wondered  at  in  England  : the  calm  magnanimity  with 
which  M.  le  Marquis  conforms  to  the  custom  of  the  country, 
to  the  wishes  of  his  helpmate,  and  leaves  her,  he  himself 
meanwhile  fighting,  or  at  least  drilling,  for  his  King,  to  range 
over  Space,  in  quest  of  loves  and  lovers  ; his  friendly  discre- 
tion, in  this  particular  ; no  less  so,  his  blithe  benignant  gulli- 

1 Vol.  ii.  p.  160. 


40 


VOLTAIRE. 


bility,  the  instant  a contretemps  de  famille  renders  his  counte- 
nance needful, — have  had  all  justice  done  them  among  us. 
His  lady  too  is  a wonder  ; offers  no  mean  study  to  psycholo- 
gists : she  is  a fair  experiment  to  try  how  far  that  Delicacy, 
which  we  reckon  innate  in  females,  is  only  incidental  and  the 
product  of  fashion  ; how  far  a woman,  not  merely  immodest, 
but  without  the  slightest  fig-leaf  of  common  decency  remain- 
ing, with  the  whole  character,  in  short,  of  a male  debauchee, 
may  still  have  any  moral  worth  as  a woman.  We  ourselves 
have  wondered  a little  over  both  these  parties  ; and  over  the 
goal  to  which  so  strange  a ‘ progress  of  society  ’ might  be 
tending.  But  still  more  wonderful,  not  without  a shade  of 
the  sublime,  has  appeared  to  us  the  cheerful  thraldom  of  this 
maltreated  philosopher  ; and  with  what  exhaustless  patience, 
not  being  wedded,  he  endured  all  these  forced-marches, 
whims,  irascibilities,  delinquencies  and  thousandfold  unrea- 
sons ; braving  ‘ the  battle  and  the  breeze,’  on  that  wild  Bay 
of  Biscay,  for  such  a period.  Fifteen  long  years,  and  was  not 
mad,  or  a suicide  at  the  end  of  them  ! But  the  like  fate,  it 
would  seem,  though  worthy  D’Israeli  has  omitted  to  enumer- 
ate it  in  his  Calamities  of  Authors,  is  not  unknown  in  litera- 
ture. Pope  also  had  his  Mrs.  Martha  Blount  ; and,  in  the 
midst  of  that  warfare  with  united  Duncedom,  his  daily  tale  of 
Egyptian  bricks  to  bake.  Let  us  pity  the  lot  of  genius,  in 
this  sublunary  sphere ! 

Every  one  knows  the  earthly  termination  of  Madame  la 
Marquise  ; and  how,  by  a strange,  almost  satirical  Nemesis, 
she  was  taken  in  her  own  nets,  and  her  worst  sin  became  her 
final  punishment.  To  no  purpose  was  the  unparalleled  credu- 
lity of  M.  le  Marquis  ; to  no  p impose,  the  amplest  toleration, 
and  even  helpful  knavery  of  M.  de  Voltaire  ; ‘ les  assiduites  di 
M.  de  Saint- Lambert  ’ and  the  unimaginable  consultations  to 
which  they  gave  rise  at  Cirey,  were  frightfully  parodied  in  the 
end.  The  last  scene  was  at  Luneville,  in  the  peaceable  court 
of  King  Stanislaus. 

‘ Seeing  that  the  aromatic  vinegar  did  no  good,  we  tried  to 
recover  her  from  the  sudden  lethargy  by  rubbing  her  feet, 


VOLTAIRE. 


41 


and  striking  in  the -palms  of  her  hands  ; but  it  was  of  no  use  : 
she  had  ceased  to  be.  The  maid  was  sent  off  to  Madame  de 
Boufflers’  apartment,  to  inform  the  company  that  Madame  du 
Chatelet  was  worse.  Instantly  they  all  arose  from  the  sup- 
per-table : M.  du  Chatelet,  M.  de  Voltaire,  and  the  other 
guests,  rushed  into  the  room.  So  soon  as  they  understood 
the  truth,  there  was  a deep  consternation  ; to  tears,  to  cries, 
succeeded  a mournful  silence.  The  husband  was  led  away, 
the  other  individuals  went  out  successively,  expressing  the 
keenest  sorrow.  M.  de  Voltaire  and  M.  de  Saint-Lambert  re- 
mained the  last  by  the  bedside,  from  which  they  could  not  be 
drawn  away.  At  length,  the  former,  absorbed  in  deep  grief, 
left  the  room,  and  with  difficulty  reached  the  main  door  of 
the  Castle,  not  knowing  whither  he  went.  Arrived  there,  he 
fell  down  at  the  foot  of  the  outer  stairs,  and  near  the  box  of  a 
sentry,  -where  his  head  came  on  the  pavement.  His  lackey, 
who  was  following,  seeing  him  fall  and  struggle  on  the  ground, 
ran  forward  and  tried  to  lift  him.  At  this  moment,  M.  de 
Saint-Lambert,  retiring  by  the  same  way,  also  arrived ; and 
observing  M.  de  Voltaire  in  that  situation,  hastened  to  assist 
the  lackey.  No  sooner  was  M.  de  Voltaire  on  his  feet,  than 
opening  his  eyes,  dimmed  with  tears,  and  recognising  M.  de 
Saint-Lambert,  he  said  to  him,  with  sobs  and  the  most  pa- 
thetic accent : “ Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  you  that  have  killed 
her  ! ” Then,  all  on  a sudden,  as  if  he  were  starting  from  a 
deep  sleep,  he  exclaimed  in  a tone  of  reproach  and  despair  : 
“Eh!  mon  Dieu  ! Monsieur,  de  quoi  vous  avisiez-vous  de  lui 
faire  un  enfant?  ” They  parted  thereupon,  without  adding  a 
single  word ; and  retired  to  them  several  apartments,  over- 
whelmed and  almost  annihilated  by  the  excess  of  them  sorrow.’ 1 

Among  all  threnetical  discourses  on  record,  this  last,  be- 
tween men  overwhelmed  and  almost  annihilated  by  the  excess 
of  their  sorrow,  has  probably  an  unexampled  character.  Some 
days  afterwards,  the  first  paroxysm  of  ‘ reproach  and  despair  ’ 
being  somewhat  assuaged,  the  sorrowing  widower,  not  the 
glad  legal  one,  composed  this  quatrain  : 

L'unirers  a perdu  la  sublime  Emilie. 

EUe  aima  les  plaisirs,  les  arts,  la  write : 

Les  dieux,  en  lui  donnant  leur  dme  et  leur  genie , 

N’avaient  garde  pour  eux  que  Vimmortalite. 

1 Vol.  ii.  p.  250. 


42 


VOLTAIRE. 


After  which,  reflecting,  perhaps,  that  with  this  sublime  Emilia, 
so  meritoriously  singular  in  loving  pleasure,  ‘ his  happiness 
had  been  chiefly  on  paper,’  he,  like  the  bereaved  Universe, 
consoled  himself,  and  went  on  his  way. 

Woman,  it  has  been  sufficiently  demonstrated,  was  given  to 
man  as  a benefit,  and  for  mutual  support ; a precious  orna- 
ment and  staff  whereupon  to  lean  in  many  trying  situations  : 
but  to  Voltaire  she  proved,  so  unlucky  was  he  in  this  matter, 
little  else  than  a broken  reed,  which  only  ran  into  his  hand. 
We  confess  that,  looking  over  the  manifold  trials  of  this  poor 
philosopher  with  the  softer,  or  as  he  may  have  reckoned  it, 
the  harder  sex, — from  that  Dutchwoman  who  published  his 
juvenile  letters,  to  the  Niece  Denis  who  as  good  as  killed  him 
with  racketing, — we  see,  in  this  one  province,  very  great  scope 
for  almost  all  the  cardinal  virtues.  And  to  these  internal  con- 
vulsions add  an  incessant  series  of  controversies  and  persecu- 
tions, political,  religious,  literary,  from  without ; and  we  have 
a life  quite  rent  asunder,  horrent  with  asperities  and  chasms, 
where  even  a stout  traveller  might  have  faltered.  Over  all 
which  Chamouni-Needles  and  Staubbaeh-Falls  the  great  Persi- 
jieur  skims  along  in  this  his  little  poetical  air-ship,  more  softly 
than  if  he  travelled  the  smoothest  of  merely  prosaic  roads. 

Leaving  out  of  view  the  worth  or  worthlessness  of  such  a 
temper  of  mind,  we  are  bound,  in  all  seriousness,  to  say,  both 
that  it  seems  to  have  been  Voltaire’s  highest  conception  of 
moral  excellence,  and  that  he  has  pursued  and  realised  it  with 
no  small  success.  One  great  praise  therefore  he  deserves, — 
that  of  unity  with  himself  ; that  of  having  an  aim,  and  sted- 
fastly  endeavouring  after  it,  nay,  as  we  have  found,  of  attain- 
ing it  ; for  his  ideal  Voltaire  seems,  to  an  unusual  degree, 
manifested,  made  practically  apparent  in  the  real  one.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  but  this  attainment  of  Persifleur,  in  the  wide 
sense  we  here  give  it,  was  of  all  others  the  most  admired  and 
sought  after  in  Voltaire’s  age  and  country ; nay,  in  our  own 
age  and  country  we  have  still  innumerable  admirers  of  it,  and 
unwearied  seekers  after  it,  on  every  hand  of  us  : nevertheless, 
we  cannot  but  believe  that  its  acme  is  past ; that  the  best 
sense  of  our  generation  has  already  weighed  its  significance, 


VOLTAIRE. 


43 


and  found  it  wanting.  Voltaire  liimself,  it  seems  to  us,  were 
he  alive  at  this  day,  w7ould  find  other  tasks  than  that  of  mock- 
ery, especially  of  mockery  in  that  style  : it  is  not  by  Derision 
and  Denial,  but  by  far  deeper,  more  earnest,  diviner  means 
that  aught  truly  great  has  been  effected  for  mankind  ; that 
the  fabric  of  man’s  life  has  been  reared,  through  long  centuries, 
to  its  present  height.  If  we  admit  that  this  chief  of  Persifleurs 
had  a steady  conscious  aim  in  life,  the  still  higher  praise  of 
having  had  a right  or  noble  aim  cannot  be  conceded  him  with- 
out many  limitations,  and  may,  plausibly  enough,  be  altogether 
denied. 

At  the  same  time,  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  that  amid  all 
these  blighting  influences,  Voltaire  maintains  a certain  in- 
destructible humanity  of  nature  ; a soul  never  deaf  to  the 
cry  of  wretchedness ; never  utterly  blind  to  the  light  of 
truth,  beauty,  goodness.  It  is  even,  in  some  measure,  poeti- 
cally interesting  to  observe  this  fine  contradiction  in  him  : 
the  heart  acting  without  directions  from  the  head,  or  perhaps 
against  its  directions ; the  man  virtuous,  as  it  were,  in  spite 
of  himself.  For  at  all  events,  it  will  be  granted  that,  as  a 
private  man,  his  existence  was  beneficial,  not  hurtful,  to  his 
fellow-men  : the  Calases,  the  Sirvens,  and  so  many  orphans 
and  outcasts  whom  he  cherished  and  protected,  ought  to 
cover  a multitude  of  sins.  It  was  his  own  sentiment,  and  to 
all  appearance  a sincere  one  : 

Paifait  un  "peU  de  bien  ; c'est  mon  meilleur  ouvrage. 

Perhaps  there  are  few  men  with  such  principles  and  such 
temptations  as  his  were,  that  could  have  led  such  a life  ; few 
that  could  have  done  his  work,  and  come  through  it  with 
cleaner  hands.  If  we  call  him  the  greatest  of  all  Persifleurs, 
let  us  add  that,  morally  speaking  also,  he  is  the  best : if  he 
excels  all  men  in  universality,  sincerity,  polished  clearness  of 
Mockery,  he  perhaps  combines  with  it  as  much  worth  of 
heart  as,  in  any  man,  that  habit  can  admit  of. 

It  is  now  wellnigh  time  that  we  should  quit  this  part  of 
our  subject  : nevertheless,  in  seeking  to  form  some  picture 


u 


VOLTAIRE. 


of  Voltaire’s  practical  life,  and  the  character,  outward  as  well 
as  inward,  of  his  appearance  in  society,  our  readers  will  not 
grudge  us  a few  glances  at  the  last  and  most  striking  scene 
he  enacted  there.  To  our  view,  that  final  visit  to  Paris  has 
a strange  half-frivolous,  half-fateful  aspect ; there  is,  as  it 
were,  a sort  of  dramatic  justice  in  this  catastrophe,  that  he, 
who  had  all  his  life  hungered  and  thirsted  after  public  fa- 
vour, should  at  length  die  by  exces's  of  it ; should  find  the 
door  of  his  Heaven-on-earth  unexpectedly  thrown  wide  open, 
and  enter  there,  only  to  be,  as  he  himself  said,  ‘ smothered 
under  roses.’  Had  Paris  any  suitable  theogony  or  theology, 
as  Borne  and  Athens  had,  this  might  almost  be  reckoned,  as 
those  Ancients  accounted  of  death  by  lightning,  a sacred 
death,  a death  from  the  gods  ; from  their  many-headed  god, 
Popularity.  In  the  benignant  quietude  of  Perney,  Voltaire 
had  lived  long,  and  as  his  friends  calculated,  might  still  have 
lived  long  ; but  a series  of  trifling  causes  lures  him  to  Paris, 
and  in  three  months  he  is  no  more.  At  all  hours  of  his  his- 
tory, he  might  have  said  with  Alexander  : “ O Athenians, 
what  toil  do  I undergo  to  please  you  ! ” and  the  last  pleasure 
his  Athenians  demand  of  him  is,  that  he  would  die  for  them. 

Considered  with  reference  to  the  world  at  large,  this  jour- 
ney is  farther  remarkable.  It  is  the  most  splendid  triumph 
of  that  nature  recorded  in  these  ages  ; the  loudest  and  show- 
iest homage  ever  paid  to  what  we  moderns  call  Literature  ; 
to  a man  that  had  merely  thought,  and  published  his  thoughts. 
Much  false  tumult,  no  doubt,  there  was  in  it ; yet  also  a cer- 
tain deeper  significance.  It  is  interesting  to  see  how  univer- 
sal and  eternal  in  man  is  love  of  wisdom  : how  the  highest 
and  the  lowest,  how  supercilious  princes  and  rude  peasants, 
and  all  men  must  alike  show  honour  to  Wisdom,  or  the  ap- 
pearance of  Wisdom  ; nay,  properly  speaking,  can  show  hon- 
our to  nothing  else.  For  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  all  Xerxes’ 
hosts  to  bend  one  thought  of  our  proud  heart:  these  ‘may 
destroy  the  case  of  Anaxarchus  ; himself  they  cannot  reach  : ’ 
only  to  spiritual  worth  can  the  spirit  do  reverence  ; only  in  a 
soul  deeper  and  better  than  ours  can  we  see  any  heavenly 
mystery,  and  in  humbling  ourselves  feel  ourselves  exalted. 


VOLTAIRE. 


45 


That  the  so  ebullient  enthusiasm  of  the  French  was  in  this 
case  perfectly  well  directed,  we  cannot  undertake  to  say  : yet 
we  rejoice  to  see  and  know  that  such  a principle  exists  per- 
ennially in  man’s  inmost  bosom  ; that  there  is  no  heart  so 
sunk  and  stupefied,  none  so  withered  and  pampered,  but  the 
felt  presence  of  a nobler  heart  will  inspire  it  and  lead  it 
captive. 

Few  royal  progresses,  few  Roman  triumphs,  have  equalled 
this  long  triumph  of  Voltaire.  On  his  journey,  at  Bourgen 
Bresse,  ‘he  was  recognised,’  says  Wag-mere,  ‘while  the  horses 
‘ were  changing,  and  in  a few  moments  the  whole  town  crowd- 
‘ ed  about  the  carriage  ; so  that  he  w7as  forced  to  lock  himself 
‘ for  some  time  in  a room  of  the  inn.’  The  Maitre-de-poste 
ordered  his  postilion  to  yoke  better  horses,  and  said  to  him 
with  a broad  oath  : “ Va  bon  train,  creve  mes  chevaux,  je  m’en 
f- — ; tu  mines  M.  de  Voltaire.”  At  Dijon,  there  were  persons 
of  distinction  that  wished  even  to  dress  themselves  as  waiters, 
that  they  might  serve  him  at  supper,  and  see  him  by  this 
stratagem. 

‘ At  the  barrier  of  Paris,’  continues  Wagniere,  ‘ the  officers 
asked  if  we  had  nothing  with  us  contrary  to  the  King’s  regu- 
lations : “On  my  word,  gentlemen,  Ma  foi,  Messieurs,”  re- 
plied M de  Voltaire,  “I  believe  there  is  nothing  contraband 
here  except  myself.”  I alighted  from  the  carriage,  that  the 
inspector  might  more  readily  examine  it.  One  of  the  guards 
said  to  his  comrade:  G’est,  pardieu!  M.  de  Voltaire.  He 
plucked  at  the  coat  of  the  person  who  wTas  searching,  and  re- 
peated the  same  words,  looking  fixedly  at  me.  I could  not 
help  laughing  ; then  ail  gazing  with  the  greatest  astonish- 
ment mingled  with  respect,  begged  M.  de  Voltaire  to  pass  on 
whither  he  pleased.’ 1 

Intelligence  soon  circulated  over  Paris  ; scarcely  could  the 
arrival  of  Kien-Long,  or  the  Grand  Lama  of  Thibet,  have  ex- 
cited greater  ferment.  Poor  Longchamp,  demitted,  or  rather 
dismissed  from  Voltaire’s  service,  eight-and-twenty  years  be- 
fore, and  now,  as  a retired  map-dealer  (having  resigned  in 
favour  of  his  son),  living  quietly  ‘ dans  un  petit  logement  d 
1 Vol.  i.  p.  121. 


46 


VOLTAIRE. 


part ,’  a fine,  smooth,  garrulous  old  man, — heard  the  news  next 
morning  in  his  remote  logement,  in  the  Estrapade  ; and  in- 
stantly huddled  on  his  clothes,  though  he  had  not  been  out 
for  two  days,  to  go  and  see  what  truth  was  in  it. 

‘ Several  persons  of  my  acquaintance,  whom  I met,  told  me 
that  they  had  heard  the  same.  I went  purposely  to  the  Cafe 
Procope,  where  this  news  formed  the  subject  of  conversation 
among  several  politicians,  or  men  of  letters,  who  talked  of  it 
with  warmth.  To  assure  myself  still  farther,  I walked  thence 
towards  the  Quai  des  Theatins,  where  he  had  alighted  the 
night  before,  and,  as  was  said,  taken  up  his  lodging  in  a man- 
sion near  the  church.  Coming  out  from  the  Rue  de  la  Seine, 
I saw  afar  off  a great  number  of  people  gathered  on  the  Quai, 
not  far  from  the  Pont-RpyaL  Approaching  nearer,  I obseiwed 
that  this  crowd  was  collected  in  front  of  the  Marquis  de  Vil- 
lette’s  Hotel,  at  the  corner  of  the  Roe  de  Beaune.  I inquired 
what  the  matter  was.  The  people  answered  me,  that  M.  de 
Voltaire  was  in  that  house  ; and  they  were  waiting  to  see  him 
when  he  came  out.  They  were  not  sure,  however,  whether 
he  would  come  out  that  day  ; for  it  was  natural  to  think  that 
an  old  man  of  eighty-four  might  need  a day  or  two  of  rest. 
Prom  that  moment,  I no  longer  doubted  the  arrival  of  M.  de 
Voltaire  in  Paris.’1 

By  dint  of  address,  Longchamp,  in  process  of  time,  con- 
trived to  see  his  old  master  ; had  an  interview  of  ten  min- 
utes ; was  for  fading  at  his  feet ; and  wept,  with  sad  presen- 
timents, at  parting.  Ten  such  minutes  were  a great  matter  ; 
for  Voltaire  had  his  levees,  and  couchees,  more  crowded  than 
those  of  any  Emperor ; princes  and  peers  thronged  his  ante- 
chamber ; and  when  he  went  abroad,  his  carriage  was  as  the 
nucleus  of  a comet,  whose  train  extended  over  whole  districts 
of  the  city.  He  himself,  says  Wagniure,  expressed  dissatis- 
faction at  much  of  this.  Nevertheless,  there  were  some  plau- 
dits which,  as  he  confessed,  went  to  his  heart.  Condorcet 
mentions  that  once  a person  in  the  crowd  inquiring  who  this 
great  man  was,  a poor  woman  answered,  “ C’est  le  sauveur  des 
Calas.”  Of  a quite  different  sort  was  the  tribute  paid  him  by 

1 Yol.  ii.  p.  353. 


VOLTAIRE. 


47 


a quack,  in  the  Place  Louis  Quinze,  haranguing  a mixed  mul- 
titude on  the  art  of  juggling  with  cards  : “ Here,  gentlemen,” 
said  he,  “ is  a trick  I learned  at  Ferney,  from  that  great  man 
who  makes  so  much  noise  among  you,  that  famous  M.  de  Vol- 
taire, the  master  of  us  all ! ” In  fact,  mere  gaping  curiosity, 
and  even  ridicule,  was  abroad,  as  well  as  real  enthusiasm. 
The  clergy  too  were  recoiling  into  ominous  groups  ; already 
some  Jesuitic  drums  ecclesiastic  had  beat  to  arms. 

Figuring  the  lean,  tottering,  lonely  old  man  in  the  midst 
of  all  this,  how  he  looks  into  it,  clear  and  alert,  though  no 
longer  strong  and  calm,  we  feel  drawn  towards  him  by  some 
tie  of  affection,  of  kindly  sympathy.  Longchamp  says,  he  ap- 
peared ‘ extremely  worn,  though  still  in  the  possession  of  all 
‘ his  senses,  and  with  a very  firm  voice.’  The  following  little 
sketch,  by  a hostile  journalist  of  the  day,  has  fixed  itself 
deeply  with  us  : 

‘ M.  de  Voltaire  appeared  in  full  dress,  on  Tuesday,  for  the 
first  time  since  his  arrival  in  Paris.  He  had  on  a red  coat 
lined  with  ermine  ; a large  peruke,  in  the  fashion  of  Louis 
XIV.,  black,  unpowdered  ; and  in  which  his  withered  visage 
was  so  buried  that  you  saw  only  his  two  eyes  shining  like  car- 
buncles. His  head  was  surmounted  by  a square  red  cap  in 
the  form  of  a crown,  which  seemed  only  laid  on.  He  had  in 
his  hand  a small  nibbed  cane  ; and  the  public  of  Paris,  not 
accustomed  to  see  him  in  this  accoutrement,  laughed  a good 
deal.  This  personage,  singular  in  all,  wishes  doubtless  to 
have  nothing  in  common  with  ordinary  men.’ 1 

This  head, — this  wondrous  microcosm  in  the  grande  per- 
ruque  d la  Louis  XIV., — was  so  soon  to  be  distenanted  of 
all  its  cunning  gifts  ; these  eyes,  shining  like  carbuncles, 
were  so  soon  to  be  closed  in  long  night  ! — We  must  now  give 
the  coronation  ceremony,  of  which  the  reader  may  have  heard, 
so  much:  borrowing  from  this  same  sceptical  hand,  which, 
however,  is  vouched  for  by  Wagniere.;  as,  indeed,  La  Harpe’s 
more  lieroical  narrative  of  that  occurrence  is  well  known,  and 
hardly  differs  from  the  following,  except  in  style  : 


Vol.  ii.  p.  466. 


43 


VOLTAIRE. 


‘ On  Monday,  M.  de  Voltaire,  resolving  to  enjoy  the  tri- 
umph which  had  been  so  long  promised  him,  mounted  his 
carriage,  that  azure-coloured  vehicle,  bespangled  with  gold 
stars,  which  a wag  called  the  chariot  of  the  empyrean  ; and 
so  repaired  to  the  Academie  Franyaise,  which  that  day  had  a 
special  meeting.  Twenty -two  members  were  present.  None 
of  the  prelates,  abbes  or  other  ecclesiastics  wrho  belong  to  it, 
would  attend,  or  take  part  in  these  singular  deliberations. 
The  sole  exceptions  were  the  Abbes  de  Boismont  and  Millot ; 
the  one  a court  rake-hell  [rout),  with  nothing  but  the  guise 
of  his  profession ; the  other  a varlet  ( cuistre ),  having  no  favour 
to  look  for,  either  from  the  Court  or  the  Church. 

‘ The  Academie  went  out  to  meet  M.  de  Voltaire : he  was 
led  to  the  Director’s  seat,  which  that  office-bearer  and  the 
meeting  invited  him  to  accept.  His  portrait  had  been  hung 
up  above  it.  The  company,  without  drawing  lots,  as  is  the 
custom,  proceeded  to  work,  and  named  him,  by  acclamation, 
Director  for  the  April  quarter.  The  old  man,  once  set  a-going, 
was  about  to  talk  a great  deal  ; but  they  told  him,  that  they 
valued  his  health  too  much  to  hear  him, — that  they  would 
reduce  him  to  silence.  M.  d’Alembert  accordingly  occupied 
the  session,  by  reading  his  Eloge  de  Despreaux,  which  had 
already  been  communicated  on  a public  occasion,  and  where 
he  had  inserted  various  flattering  things  for  the  present 
visitor. 

‘ M.  de  Voltaire  then  signified  a wish  to  visit  the  Secretary 
of  the  Academie,  whose  apartments  are  above.  With  this 
gentleman  he  stayed  some  time  ; and  at  last  set  out  for  the 
Comedie  Franc aise.  The  court  of  the  Louvre,  vast  as  it  is, 
was  full  of  people  waiting  for  him.  So  soon  as  his  notable 
vehicle  came  in  sight,  the  cry  arose,  Le  voild  ! The  Savoyards, 
the  apple-women,  all  the  rabble  of  the  quarter  had  assembled 
there  ; and  the  acclamations,  Vive  Voltaire ! resounded  as  if 
they  would  never  end.  The  Marquis  de  Viliette,  who  had 
arrived  before,  came  to  hand  him  out  of  his  carriage,  where 
the  Procureur  Clos  was  seated  beside  him  : both  these  gave 
him  their  arms,  and  could  scarcely  extricate  him  from  the 
press.  On  his  entering  the  playhouse,  a crowd  of  more  ele- 
gance, and  seized  with  true  enthusiasm  for  genius,  surrounded 
him  : the  ladies,  above  all,  threw  themselves  in  his  way,  and 
stopped  it,  the  better  to  look  at  him  ; some  were  seen  squeez- 
ing forward  to  touch  his  clothes ; some  plucking  hair  from 
his  fur.  M.  le  Due  de  Chartres,1  not  caring  to  advance  too 
! Afterwards  Egalite. 


VOLTAIRE. 


49 


near,  showed,  though  at  a distance,  no  less  curiosity  than 
others. 

‘ The  saint,  or  rather  the  god,  of  the  evening,  was  to  occupy 
the  bos  belonging  to  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Bedchamber,'  op- 
posite that  of  the  Comte  d’Artois.  Madame  Denis  and  Madame 
de  Villette  were  already  there  ; and  the  pit  was  in  convulsions 
of  joy,  awaiting  the  moment  when,  the  poet  should  appear. 
There  was  no  end  till  he  placed  himself  on  the  front  seat,  be- 
side the  ladies.  Then  rose  a cry  : La  Couronne  ! and  Brizard, 
the  actor,  came  and  put  the  garland  on  his  head.  “ Ah,  Heav- 
en ! will  you  hill  me  then  ? (Ah,  Dieu  ! vous  voulez  done  me 
faire  mourir  ?)  ” cried  M.  de  Voltaire,  weeping  -with  joy,  and 
resisting  this  honour.  He  took  the  crown  in  his  hand,  and 
presented  it  to  Belle-et- Bonne : 2 she  withstood  ; and  the  Prince 
de  Beauvau,  seizing  the  laurel,  replaced  it  on  the  head  of  our 
Sophocles,  -who  could  refuse  no  longer. 

‘ The  piece  (Irene)  was  played,  and  with  more  applause  than 
usual,  though  scarcely  with  enough  to  correspond  to  this  tri- 
umph of  its  author.  Meanwhile  the  players  were  in  straits  as 
to  what  they  should . do  ; and  during  their  deliberations  the 
tragedy  ended ; the  curtain  fell,  and  the  tumult  of  the  people 
was  extreme,  till  it  rose  again,  disclosing  a show  like  that  of 
the  Centenaire.  M.  de  Voltaire’s  bust,  which  had  been  placed 
shortly  before  in  the  foyer  (greenroom)  of  the  Comedie  Fran- 
caiise,  had  been  brought  upon  the  stage,  and  elevated  on  a 
pedestal;  the  whole  body  of  comedians  stood  round  it  in  a 
semicircle,  with  palms  and  garlands  in  their  hands  ; there  was 
a crown  already  on  the  bust.  The  pealing  of  musical  nour- 
ishes, of  drums,  of  trumpets,  had  announced  the  ceremony ; 
and  Madame  Vestris  held  in  her  hand  a paper,  which  was  soon 
understood  to  contain  verses,  lately  composed  by  the  Marquis 
de  Saint-Marc.  She  recited  them  with  an  emphasis  propor- 
tioned to  the  extravagance  of  the  scene.  They  ran  as  follows : 

Aux  yeux  de  Paris  encliante , 

Recoin  en  ce  jour  un  homrnage, 

Que  confirmer  a d’dge  en  age 
La  severe  postiriti! 

Nan  tu  n'as  pas  lesoin  d’atteindre  au  noir  rivage 
Pour  jouir  des  honneurs  de  V immorlalite  ! 


1 He  himself,  as  is  perhaps  too  well  known,  was  one. 
! The  Marquise  de  Villette,  a foster-child  of  his. 

4 


50 


VOLTAIRE. 


Voltaire,  re^ois  la  couronne 
Que  Von  vient  de  te  presenter  ; 

II  est  beau  de  la  meriter, 

Quand  c'est  la  France  qui  la,  donne  ! 1 

This  was  encored  : the  actress  recited  it  again.  Nest,  each  of 
them  went  forward  and  laid  his  garland  round  the  bust. 
Mademoiselle  Fanier,  in  a fanatical  ecstasy,  kissed  it,  and  all 
the  others  imitated  her. 

1 This  long  ceremony,  accompanied  with  infinite  vivats,  be- 
ing over,  the  curtain  again  dropped  ; and  when  it  rose  for  Ha- 
nine,  one  of  M.  de  Voltaire’s  comedies,  his  bust  was  seen  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  the  stage,  where  it  remained  during  the 
whole  play. 

‘ M.  le  Comte  d’ Artois  did  not  choose  to  show  himself  too 
openly,  but  being  informed,  according  to  his  orders,  as  soon 
as  M.  de  Voltaire  appeared  in  the  theatre,  he  had  gone  thither 
incognito  ; and  it  is  thought  that  the  old  man,  once  when  he 
went  out  for  a moment,  had  the  honour  of  a short  interview 
with  his  Royal  Highness. 

‘ Nanine  finished,  comes  a new  huiiyburly ; a new  trial  for 
the  modesty  of  our  philosopher ! He  had  got  into  his  car- 
riage, but  the  people  would  not  let  him  go  ; they  threw 
themselves  on  the  horses,  they  kissed  them  : some  young 
poets  even  cried  to  unyoke  these  animals,  and  draw  the  mod- 
ern Apollo  home  with  their  own  arms  ; unhappily,  there 
were  not  enthusiasts  enough  to  volunteer  this  service,  and 
he  at  last  got  leave  to  depart,  not  without  vivats,  which  he 
may  have  heard  on  the  Pout-Royal,  and  even  in  his  own 
house.  . . 

‘ M.  de  Voltaire,  on  reaching  home,  wept  anew ; and  mod- 
estly protested  that  if  he  had  known  the  people  were  to  play 
so  many  follies,  he  would  not  have  gone.’ 

On  all  these  wonderful  proceedings  we  shall  leave  our  read- 
ers to  their  own  reflections  ; remarking  only,  that  this  hap- 
pened on  the  30th  of  March  (1778),  and  that  on  the  30th  of 
May,  about  the  same  hour,  the  object  of  such  extraordinary 
adulation  was  in  the  article  of  death  : the  hearse  already  pre- 
pared to  receive  his  remains,  for  which  even  a grave  had  to 
be  stolen.  ‘ He  expired.’  says  Wagniere,  ‘ about  a quarter 

1 As  Dryden  said  of  Swift,  so  may  we  say  : Our.  cousin  Saint-Marc  lias 
no  turn  for  poetry. 


VOLTAIRE. 


51 


‘ past  eleven  at  night,  with  the  most  perfect  tranquillity,  after 
‘having  suffered  the  cruellest  pains,  in  consequence  of  those 
‘ fatal  drugs,  which  his  own  imprudence,  and  especially  that 

* of  the  persons  who  should  have  looked  to  it,  made  him  swal- 

* low.  Ten  minutes  before  his  last  breath,  he  took  the  hand  of 
‘ Morand,  his  valet-de-chambre,  who  was  watching  by  him  ; 

‘ pressed  it,  and  said,  “ Adieu,  mon  cher  Morand,  je  me  mews, 

‘ Adieu,  my  dear  Morand,  I am  gone.”  These  are  the  last 
‘ words  uttered  byM.  de  Voltaire.’ 1 

"We  have  still  to  consider  this  man  in  his  specially  intellec- 

1 On  this  sickness  of  Voltaire,  and  his  deatli-hed  deportment,  many 
foolish  hooks  have  been  written  ; concerning  which  it  is  not  necessary 
to  say  anything.  The  conduct  of  the  Parisian  clerg)',  on  that  occasion, 
seems  totally  unworthy  of  their  cloth  ; nor  was  their  reward,  so  far  as 
concerns  these  individuals,  inappropriate  : that  of  finding  themselves 
once  more  bilked,  once  more  persifies  by  that  strange  old  man,  in  his 
last  decrepitude,  who,  in  his  strength,  had  wrought  them  and  others  so 
many  griefs.  Surely  the  parting  agonies  of  a fellow  mortal,  when  the 
spirit  of  our  brother,  rapt  in  the  whirlwinds  and  thick  ghastly  vapours 
of  death,  clutches  blindly  for  help,  and  no  help  is  there,  are  not  the 
scenes  where  a wise  faith  would  seek  to  exult,  when  it  can  no  longer 
hope  to  alleviate  ! For  the  rest,  to  touch  farther  on  those  their  idle 
tales  of  dying  horrors,  remorse  and  the  like  ; to  write  of  such,  to  believe 
them,  or  disbelieve  them,  or  in  anywise  discuss  them,  were  hut  a con- 
tinuation of  the  same  ineptitude.  He  who,  after  the  imperturbable  exit 
of  so  many  Cartouches  and  Tliurtells,  in  every  age  of  the  world,  can  con- 
tinue to  regard  the  manner  of  a man’s  death  as  a test  of  his  religious  or- 
thodoxy, may  boast  himself  impregnable  to  merely  terrestrial  logic.  Vol- 
taire had  enough  of  suffering,  and  of  mean  enough  suffering,  to  encounter, 
without  any  addition  from  theological  despair.  His  last  interview  with 
the  clergy,  who  had  been  sent  for  by  his  friends,  that  the  rites  of  burial 
might  not  be  denied  him,  is  thus  described  by  Wagniere,  as  it  has  been 
by  all  other  credible,  reporters  of  it : 

‘ Two  days  before  that  mournful  death,  M.  l’Abbe  Mignot,  his 
‘ nephew,  went  to  seek  the  Cure  of  Saint-Sulpice,  and  the  Abbe  Guatier, 
‘ and  brought  them  into  his  uncle’s  sick-room  ; who,  being  informed 
‘ that  the  Abbe  Guatier  was  there,  “Ah,  well ! ” said  he,  “ give  him 
‘ my  compliments  and  my  thanks.”  The  Abbe  spoke  some  words  to 
‘ him,  exhorting  him  to  patience.  The  Cure  of  Saint-Sulpice  then 
‘ came  forward,  having  announced  himself,  and  asked  of  M.  de  Voltaire, 
‘ elevating  his  voice,  if  he  acknowledged  the  divinity  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
‘ Christ  ? The  sick  man  pushed  one  of  his  hands  against  the  Cure’s 


52 


VOLTAIRE. 


tual  capacity ; which,  as  with  every  man  of  letters,  is  to  be 
regarded  as  the  clearest,  and,  to  ah  practical  intents,  the  most 
important  aspect  of  him.  Voltaire’s  intellectual  endowment 
and  acquirement,  his  talent  or  genius  as  a literary  man,  lies 
opened  to  us  in  a series  of  Writings,  unexampled,  as  we  be- 
lieve, in  two  respects, — their  extent,  and  their  diversity. 
Perhaps  there  is  no  writer,  not  a mere  compiler,  but  writing 
from  his  own  invention  or  elaboration,  who  has  left  so  many 
volumes  behind  him ; and  if  to  the  merely  arithmetical,  we 
add  a critical  estimate,  the  singularity  is  still  greater ; for 
these  volumes  are  not  written  without  an  appearance  of  due 
care  and  preparation  ; perhaps  there  is  not  one  altogether 
feeble  and  confused  treatise,  nay  one  feeble  and  confused  sen- 
tence, to  be  found  in  them.  As  to  variety,  again,  they  range 
nearly  over  ah  human  subjects  ; from  Theology  down  to  Do- 
mestic Economy  ; from  the  Familiar  Letter  to  the  Political 
History  ; from  the  Pasquinade  to  the  Epic  Poem.  Some 
strange  gift,  or  union  of  gifts,  must  have  been  at  work  here  ; 
for  the  result  is,  at  least,  in  the  highest  degree  uncommon, 
and  to  be  wondered  at,  if  not  to  be  admired. 

If,  through  all  this  many-coloured  versatility,  we  try  to  de- 
cipher the  essential,  distinctive  features  of  Voltaire’s  intellect, 
it  seems  to  us  that  we  find  there  a counterpart  to  our  theory 
of  his  moral  character ; as,  indeed,  if  that  theory  was  accu- 
rate, we  must  do  : for  the  thinking  and  the  moral  nature,  dis- 
tinguished by  the  necessities  of  speech,  have  no  such  distinc- 
tion in  themselves ; but,  rightly  examined,  exhibit  in  every 
case  the  strictest  sympathy  and  correspondence,  are,  indeed, 
but  different  phases  of  the  same  indissoluble  unity, — a firing 
mind.  In  fife,  Voltaire  was  found  to  be  without  good  claim 
to  the  title  of  philosopher ; and  now,  in  literature,  and  for 
similar  reasons,  we  find  in  him  the  same  deficiencies.  Here 

1 calotte  (coif),  shoving  him  hack,  and  cried,  turning  abruptly  to  the 
‘ other  side,  “ Let  me  die  in  peace  ( Laissez-inoi  mourir  enpaix ) ! ” The 
‘ Cure  seemingly  considered  his  person  soiled,  and  his  coif  dishonoured, 
‘ by  the  touch  of  a philosopher.  He  made  the  sicknurse  give  him  a 
‘ little  brushing,  and  then  went  out  with  the  Abbe  Guatier.’  Yol.  i.  p. 
161. 


VOLTAIRE. 


53 


too  it  is  not  greatness,  but  the  very  extreme  of  expertness, 
that  we  recognise ; not  strength,  so  much  as  agility,  not 
depth,  but  superficial  extent.  That  truly  surprising  ability 
seems  rather  the  unparalleled  combination  of  many  common 
talents,  than  the  exercise  of  any  finer  or  higher  one  : for  here 
too  the  want  of  earnestness,  of  intense  continuance,  is  fatal  to 
him.  He  has  the  eye  of  a lynx ; sees  deeper,  at  the  first 
glance,  than  any  other  man  ; but  no  second  glance  is  given. 
Thus  Truth,  which  to  the  philosopher,  has  from  of  old  been 
said  to  live  in  a well,  remains  for  the  most  part  hidden  from 
him  ; we  may  say  forever  hidden,  if  we  take  the  highest,  and 
only  philosophical  species  of  Truth  ; for  this  does  not  reveal 
itself  to  any  mortal,  without  quite  another  sort  of  meditation 
than  Yoltaire  ever  seems  to  have  bestowed  on  it.  In  fact,  his 
deductions  are  uniformly  of  a forensic,  argumentative,  imme- 
diately practical  nature  ; often  true,  we  will  admit,  so  far  as 
they  go  ; but  not  the  whole  truth  ; and  false,  when  taken  for 
the  whole.  In  regard  to  feeling,  it  is  the  same  with  him : he 
is,  in  general,  humane,  mildly  affectionate,  not  without  touches 
of  nobleness ; but  light,  fitful,  discontinuous  ; ‘ a smart  free- 
thinker, all  things  in  an  hour.’  He  is  no  Poet  and  Philoso- 
pher, but  a popular  sweet  Singer  and  Haranguer : in  all  senses, 
and  in  all  styles,  a Concionator,  which,  for  the  most  part,  will 
turn  out  to  be  an  altogether  different  character.  It  is  true, 
in  this  last  province  he  stands  unrivalled  ; for  such  an  audi- 
ence, the  most  fit  and  perfectly  persuasive  of  all  preachers  : 
but  in  many  far  higher  provinces,  he  is  neither  perfect  nor 
unrivalled  ; has  been  often  surpassed  ; was  surpassed  even  iu 
his  own  age  and  nation.  For  a decisive,  thorough-going,  in 
any  measure  gigantic  force  of  thought,  he  is  far  inferior  to 
Diderot : with  all  the  liveliness  he  has  not  the  soft  elegance, 
with  more  than  the  wit  he  has  but  a small  portion  of  the  wis- 
dom, that  belonged  to  Fontenelle  : as  in  real  sensibility,  so  in 
the  delineation  of  it,  in  pathos,  loftiness  and  earnest  eloquence, 
he  cannot,  making  all  fair  abatements,  and  there  are  many, 
be  compared  with  Piousseau. 

Doubtless,  an  astonishing  fertility,  quickness,  address  ; an 
openness  also,  and  universal  susceptibility  of  mind,  must 


54: 


VOLTAIRE. 


have  belonged  to  him.  As  little  can  we  deny  that  he  mani- 
fests an  assiduous  perseverance,  a capability  of  long-continued 
exertion,  strange  in  so  volatile  a man  ; and  consummate  skill 
in  husbanding  and  wisely  directing  his  exertion.  The  very 
knowledge  he  had  amassed,  granting,  which  is  but  partly 
true,  that  it  was  superficial  remembered  knowledge,  might 
have  distinguished  him  as  a mere  Dutch  commentator.  From 
Newton’s  Principia  to  the  Shatter  and  Veclam,  nothing  has 
escaped  him  : he  has  glanced  into  all  literatures  and  all 
sciences ; nay  studied  in  them,  for  he  can  speak  a rational 
word  on  all.  It  is  known,  for  instance,  that  he  understood 
Newton  when  no  other  man  in  France  understood  him  : in- 
deed, his  countrymen  may  call  Voltaire  their  discoverer  of 
intellectual  England  ; — a discovery,  it  is  true,  rather  of  the 
Curtis  than  of  the  Columbus  sort,  yet  one  which  in  his  day 
still  remained  to  be  made.  Nay  from  all  sides  he  brings  new 
light  into  his  country  : now,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  up- 
turned wondering  eyes  of  Frenchmen  in  general,  does  it  be- 
come clear  that  Thought  has  actually  a kind  of  existence  in 
other  kingdoms  ; that  some  glimmerings  of  civilisation  had 
dawned  here  and  there  on  the  human  species,  prior  to  the 
Siecle  de  Louis  Quatorze.  Of  Voltaire’s  acquaintance  with 
History,  at  least  with  what  he  called  History,  be  it  civil,  relig- 
ious, or  literary ; of  his  innumerable,  indescribable  collec- 
tion of  facts,  gathered  from  all  sources, — from  European 
Chronicles  and  State  Papers,  from  eastern  Zends  and  Jewish 
Talmuds,  we  need  not  remind  any  reader.  It  has  been  ob- 
jected that  his  information  was  often  borrowed  at  second- 
hand ; that  he  had  his  plodders  and  pioneers,  whom,  as  living 
dictionaries,  he  skilfully  consulted  in  time  of  need.  This 
also  seems  to  be  partly  true,  but  deducts  little  from  our  esti- 
mate of  him  : for  the  skill  so  to  borrow  is  even  rarer  than  the 
power  to  lend.  Voltaire’s  knowledge  is  not  a mere  show-room 
of  curiosities,  but  truly  a museum  for  purposes  of  teaching  ; 
every  object  is  in  its  place,  and  there  for  its  uses,  nowhere  do 
we  find  confusion  or  vain  display  ; everywhere  intention,  in- 
structiveness and  the  clearest  order. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  very  power  of  Order,  of  rapid  perspicu- 


VOLTAIRE. 


55 


ous  Arrangement,  that  lies  at  the  root  of  Voltaire’s  best  gifts  ; 
or  rather,  we  should  say,  it  is  that  keen,  accurate  intellectual 
■vision,  from  which,  to  a mind  of  any  intensity,  Order  natur- 
ally arises.  The  clear  quick  vision,  and  the  methodic  arrange- 
ment which  springs  from  it,  are  looked  upon  as  peculiarly 
French  qualities  ; and  Voltaire,  at  all  times,  manifests  them 
in  a more  than  French  degree.  Let  him  but  cast  his  eye  over 
any  subject,  in  a moment  he  sees,  though  indeed  only  to  a 
short  depth,  yet  with  instinctive  decision,  where  the  main 
bearings  of  it  for  that  short  depth  lie  ; what  is,  or  appears  to 
be,  its  logical  coherence  ; how  causes  connect  themselves  with 
effects  ; how  the  whole  is  to  be  seized,  and  in  lucid  sequence 
represented  to  his  own  or  to  other  minds.  In  this  respect, 
moreover,  it  is  happy  for  him  that,  below  the  short  depth  al- 
luded to,  his  view  does  not  properly  grow  dim,  but  altogether 
terminates : thus  there  is  nothing  farther  to  occasion  him 
misgivings  ; has  he  not  already  sounded  into  that  basis  of 
bottomless  Darkness  on  which  all  things  firmly  rest  ? What 
lies  belowr  is  delusion,  imagination,  some  form  of  Superstition 
or  Folly  ; which  he,  nothing  doubting,  altogether  casts  away. 
Accordingly,  he  is  the  most  intelligible  of  writers  ; everywhere 
transparent  at  a glance.  There  is  no  delineation  or  disquisi- 
tion of  his,  that  has  not  its  whole  purport  written  on  its  fore- 
head ; all  is  precise,  all  is  rightly  adjusted  ; that  keen  spirit 
of  Order  shows  itself  in  the  whole,  and  iu  every  line  of  the 
■whole. 

If  we  say  that  this  power  of  Arrangement,  as  applied  both 
to  the  acquisition  and  to  the  communication  of  ideas,  is  Vol- 
taire’s most  serviceable  faculty  in  all  his  enterprises,  wre  say 
nothing  singular  : for  take  the  word  in  its  largest  acceptation, 
and  it  comprehends  the  whole  office  of  Understanding,  logi- 
cally so  called  ; is  the  means  whereby  mail  accomplishes  what- 
ever, in  the  way  of  outward  force,  has  been  made  possible  for 
him  ; conquers  all  practical  obstacles,  and  rises  to  be  the 
‘ king  of  this  lower  world.’  It  is  the  organ  of  all  that  Knowl- 
edge which  can  properly  be  reckoned  synonymous  with  Power ; 
for  hereby  man  strikes  with  wise  aim,  into  the  infinite  agencies 
of  Nature,  and  multiplies  his  own  small  strength  to  unlimited 


56 


VOLTAIRE. 


degrees.  It  has  been  said  also  that  man  may  rise  to  he  the 
‘ god  of  this  lower  world ; ’ but  that  is  a far  loftier  height, 
not  attainable  by  such  power-knowledge,  but  by  quite  another 
sort,  for  which  Yoltaire  in  particular  shows  hardly  any  apti- 
tude. 

In  truth,  readily  as  we  have  recognised  his  spirit  of  Method, 
with  its  many  uses,  wre  are  far  from  ascribing  to  him  any  per- 
ceptible portion  of  that  greatest  praise  in  thinking,  or  in  writ- 
ing, the  praise  of  philosophic,  still  less  of  poetic  Method  ; 
which,  especially  the  latter,  must  be  the  fruit  of  deep  feeling 
as  well  as  of  clear  vision, — of  genius  as  well  as  talent ; and  is 
much  more  likely  to  be  found  in  the  compositions  of  a Hooker 
or  a Sliakspeare  than  of  a Yoltaire.  The  Method  discernible 
in  Voltaire,  and  this  on  all  subjects  whatever,  is  a purely 
business  Method.  The  order  that  arises  from  it  is  not  Beauty, 
but,  at  best,  Regularity.  His  objects  do  not  lie  round  him  in 
pictorial,  not  always  in  scientific  grouping  ; but  rather  in  com- 
modious rows,  where  each  may  be  seen  and  come  at,  like  goods 
in  a well-kept  warehouse.  We  might  say,  there  is  not  the 
deep  natural  symmetry  of  a forest  oak,  but  the  simple  artifi- 
cial symmetry  of  a parlour  chandelier.  Compare,  for  example, 
the  plan  of  the  Henriade  to  that  of  our  so  barbarous  Hamlet. 
The  plan  of  the  former  is  a geometrical  diagram  by  Fermat ; 
that  of  the  latter  a cartoon  by  Raphael.  The  Henriade,  as 
Ave  see  it  completed,  is  a polished  square-built  Tuileiies : 
Hamlet  is  a mysterious  star-paved  Valhalla  and  dwelling  of  the 
gods. 

Nevertheless,  Voltaire’s  style  of  Method  is,  as  we  have  said, 
a business  one  ; and  for  his  purposes  more  available  than  any 
other.  It  carries  him  SAviftly  through  his  work,  and  carries 
liis  reader  swiftly  through  it ; there  is  a prompt  intelli- 
gence between  the  two ; the  whole  meaning  is  communi- 
cated clearly,  and  comprehended  Avithout  effort.  From  this 
also  it  may  folloAA',  that  Voltaire  will  please  the  young  more 
than  he  does  the  old  ; that  the  first  perusal  of  him  will  please 
better  than  the  second,  if  indeed  any  second  be  thought  neces- 
sary. But  what  merit  (and  it  is  considerable)  the  pleasure  and 
profit  of  this  first  perusal  presupposes,  must  be  honestly  al- 


VOLTAIRE. 


57 


lowed  him.  Herein,  it  seems  to  us,  lies  the  grand  quality  in 
all  his  performances.  These  Histories  of  his,  for  instance,  are 
felt,  in  spite  of  their  sparkling  rapidity,  and  knowing  ah'  of 
philosophic  insight,  to  he  among  the  shallowest  of  all  his- 
tories ; mere  beadrolls  of  exterior  occurrences,  of  battles,  edi- 
fices, enactments,  and  other  quite  superficial  phenomena  ; yet 
being  clear  beadrolls,  well  adapted  for  memory,  and  recited  in 
a lively  tone,  we  listen  with  satisfaction,  and  learn  somewhat ; 
learn  much,  if  we  began  knowing  nothing.  Nay  sometimes 
the  summary,  in  its  skilful  though  crowded  arrangement,  and 
brilliant  well-defined  outlines,  has  almost  a poetical  as  well  as 
a didactic  merit.  Charles  the  Twelfth  may  still  pass  for  a 
model  in  that  often-attempted  species  of  Biography : the 
clearest  details  are  given  in  the  fewest  words ; we  have 
sketches  of  strange  men  and  strange  countries,  of  wars,  ad- 
ventures, negotiations,  in  a style  which,  for  graphic  brevity 
rivals  that  of  Sallust.  It  is  a line-engraving,  on  a reduced 
scale,  of  that  Swede  and  his  mad  life  ; without  colours,  yet 
not  without  the  fore-shortenings  and  perspective  observances, 
nay  not  altogether  without  the  deeper  harmonies,  which  be- 
long to  a true  Picture.  In  respect  of  composition,  whatever 
may  be  said  of  its  accuracy  or  worth  otherwise,  wTe  cannot  but 
reckon  it  greatly  the  best  of  Voltaire’s  Histories. 

In  his  other  prose  works,  in  his  Novels,  and  innumerable 
Essays  and  fugitive  pieces,  the  same  clearness  of  order,  the 
same  rapid  precision  of  view,  again  forms  a distinguishing- 
merit.  His  Zadigs  and  JBaboucs  and  Candides,  which,  con- 
sidered as  products  of  imagination,  perhaps  rank  higher  with 
foreigners  than  any  of  his  professedly  poetical  performances, 
are  instinct  with  this  sort  of  intellectual  life  : the  sharpest 
glances,  though  from  an  oblique  point  of  sight,  into  at  least 
the  surface  of  human  life,  into  the  old  familiar  world  of  busi- 
ness ; which  truly,  from  his  oblique  station,  looks  oblique 
enough,  and  yields  store  of  ridiculous  combinations.  The 
Wit,  manifested  chiefly  in  these  and  the  like  performances, 
but  ever  flowing,  unless  purposely  restrained,  in  boundless 
abundance  from  Voltaire’s  mind,  has  been  often  and  duly 
celebrated.  It  lay  deep-rooted  in  his  nature  ; the  inevitable 


53 


VOLTAIRE. 


produce  of  such  an  understanding  with  such  a character,  and 
was  from  the  first  likely,  as  it  actually  proved  in  the  latter 
period  of  his  life,  to  become  the  main  dialect  in  which  he 
spoke  and  even  thought.  Doing  all  justice  to  the  inexhausti- 
ble readiness,  the  quick  force,  the  polished  acuteness  of  Vol- 
taire’s Wit ; we  may  remark,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  was 
nowise  the  highest  species  of  employment  for  such  a mind 
as  his  ; that,  indeed,  it  ranks  essentially  among  the  lowest 
species  even  of  Bidicule.  It  is  at  all  times  mere  logical 
pleasantry  ; a ’gaiety  of  the  head,  not  of  the  heart ; there  is 
scarcely  a twinkling  of  Humour  in  the  whole  of  his  number- 
less sallies.  Wit  of  this  sort  cannot  maintain  a demure  se- 
dateness ; a grave  yet  infinitely  kind  aspect,  warming  the 
inmost  soul  with  true  loving  mirth  ; it  has  not  even  the  force 
to  laugh  outright,  but  can  only  sniff  and  titter.  It  grounds 
itself,  not  on  fond  sportful  sympathy,  but  on  contempt,  or  at 
best  on  indifference.  It  stands  related  to  Humour  as  Prose 
does  to  Poetry  ; of  which,  in  this  department  at  least,  Vol- 
taire exhibits  no  symptom.  The  most  determinedly  ludi- 
crous composition  of  his,  the  Pucelle,  which  cannot,  on  other 
grounds,  be  recommended  to  any  reader,  has  no  higher  merit 
than  that  of  an  audacious  caricature.  True,  he  is  not  a buf- 
foon ; seldom  or  never  violates  the  rules,  we  shall  not  say 
of  propriety,  yet  of  good  breeding  : to  this  negative  praise 
he  is  entitled.  But  as  for  any  high  claim  to  positive  praise, 
it  cannot  be  made  good.  We  look  in  vain,  through  his 
whole  writings,  for  one  lineament  of  a Quixote  or  a Shandy  ; 
even  of  a Hudibras  or  Battle  of  the  Books.  Indeed  it  has  been 
more  than  once  observed,  that  Humour  is  not  a national  gift 
with  the  French  in  late  times  ; that  since  Montaigne's  day  it 
seems  to  have  wellnigh  vanished  from  among  them. 

Considered  in  his  technical  capacity  of  Poet,  Voltaire  need 
not,  at  present,  detain  us  very  long.  Here  too  his  excellence 
is  chiefly  intellectual,  and  shown  in  the  way  of  business-like 
method.  Everything  is  well  calculated  for  a given  end  ; there 
is  the  utmost  logical  fitness  of  sentiment,  of  incident,  of  gen- 
eral contrivance.  Nor  is  he  without  an  enthusiasm  that  some- 
times resembles  inspiration ; a clear  fellow-feeling  for  the 


VOLTAIRE. 


59 


personages  of  his  scene  he  always  has  ; with  a chameleon  sus- 
ceptibility he  takes  some  hue  of  every  object  ; if  he  cannot  be 
that  object,  he  at  least  plausibly  enacts  it.  Thus  we  have  a 
result  everywhere  consistent  with  itself ; a contrivance,  not 
without  nice  adjustments  and  brilliant  aspects,  which  pleases 
with  that  old  pleasure  of  ‘ difficulties  overcome,’  and  the  visible 
correspondence  of  means  to  end.  That  the  deeper  portion 
of  our  soul  sits  silent,  unmoved  under  all  this  ; recognising'  no 
universal,  everlasting  Beauty,  but  only  a modish  Elegance, 
less  the  work  of  a poetical  creation  than  a process  of  the 
toilette,  need  occasion  no  surprise.  It  signifies  only  that  Vol- 
taire was  a French  poet,  and  wrote  as  the  French  people  of 
that  day  required  and  approved.  We  have  long  known  that 
French  poetry  aimed  at  a different  result  from  ours;  that  its 
splendour  was  what  we  should  call  a dead,  artificial  one  ; not 
the  manifold  soft  summer  glories  of  Nature,  but  a cold  splen- 
dour, as  of  polished  metal. 

On  the  whole,  in  reading  Voltaire’s  poetry,  that  adventure 
of  the  Cafe  cle  Procope  should  ever  be  held  in  mind.  He  was 
not  without  an  eye  to  have  looked,  had  he  seen  others  looking-, 
into  the  deepest  nature  of  poetry  ; nor  has  he  failed  here  and 
there  to  cast  a glance  in  that  direction  : but  what  preferment 
could  such  enterprises  earn  for  him  in  the  Cafe  de  Procope  ? 
What  could  it  profit  his  all-precious  ‘ fame  ’ to  pursue  them 
farther  ? In  the  end,  he  seems  to  have  heartily  reconciled 
himself  to  use  and  wont,  and  striven  only  to  do  better  what 
he  saw  all  others  doing.  Yet  his  private  poetical  creed,  which 
could  not  be  a catholic  one,  was,  nevertheless,  scarcely  so 
bigoted  as  might  have  been  looked  for.  That  censure  of 
Shakspeare,  which  elicited  a re-censure  in  England,  perhaps 
rather  deserved  a ‘recommendatory  epistle,’  all  things  being 
considered.  He  calls  Shakspeare  ‘ a genius  full  of  force  and 
‘fertility,  of  nature  and  sublimity,’  though  unhappily  ‘without 
‘ the  smallest  spark  of  good  taste,  or  the  smallest  acquaintance 
‘ with  the  rules  ; ’ which,  in  Voltaire’s  dialect,  is  not  so  false  ; 
Shakspeare  having  really  almost  no  Parisian  bon  gout  whatever, 
and  walking  through  ‘ the  rules,’  so  often  as  he  sees  good,  with 
the  most  astonishing  tranquillity.  After  a fair  enough  account 


60 


VOLTAIRE. 


of  Hamlet,  tlae  best  of  those  £ farces  monstrueuses  qu’on  appette 
tragedies,’  where,  however,  there  are  ‘ scenes  so  beautiful,  pas- 
sages so  grand  and' so  terrible,’  Voltaire  thus  proceeds  to 
resolve  two  great  problems  : 

‘ The  first,  how  so  many  wonders  could  accumulate  in  a 
single  head  ; for  it  must  be  confessed  that  all  the  divine 
Shakspeare’s  plays  are  written  in  this  taste  : the  second,  how 
men  s minds  could  have  been  elevated  so  as  to  look  at  these 
plays  with  transport  ; and  how  they  are  still  followed  after,  in 
a centurv  which  has  produced  Addison  s Colo  ? 

‘ Our  astonishment  at  the  first  wonder  will  cease,  when  we 
understand  that  Shakspeare  took  all  his  tragedies  from  his- 
tories or  romances  ; and  that  in  this  case  he  only  turned  into 
verse  the  romance  of  Claudius,  Gertrude  and  Hamlet,  written 
in  full  by  Saxo-Grammaticus,  to  whom  be  the  praise. 

‘ The  second  part  of  the  problem,  that  is  to  say,  the  pleasure 
men  take  in  these  tragedies,  presents  a little  more  difficulty ; 
but  here  is  (en  void)  the  solution,  according  to  the  deep  re- 
flections of  certain  philosophers. 

‘The  English  chairmen,  the  sailors,  hackney-coachmen, 
shop-porters,  butchers,  clerks  even,  are  passionately  fond  of 
shows  give  them  cock-fights,  bull-baitings,  fencing-matches, 
burials,  duels,  gibbets,  witchcraft,  apparitions,  they  run  thither 
in  crowds  ; nay  there  is  more  than  one  patrician  as  curious 
as  the  populace.  The  citizens  of  -London  found,  in  Shak- 
speare’s tragedies,  satisfaction  enough  for  such  a turn  of  mind. 
The  courtiers  were  obliged  to  follow  the  torrent : how  can 
vou  help  admiring  what  the  more  sensible  part  of  the  town 
admires?  There  was  nothing  better  for  a hundred  and  fifty 
years  : the  admiration  grew  with  age,  and  became  an  idoltarv. 
Some  touches  of  genius,  some  happy  verses  full  of  force  and 
nature,  which  you  remember  in  spite  of  yourself,  atoned  for 
the  remainder,  and  soon  the  whole  piece  succeeded  by  the 
help  of  some  beauties  of  detail.  ’ 1 

Here,  truly,  is  a comfortable  little  theory,  which  throws 
light  on  more  than  one  thing.  However,  it  is  couched  in 
mild  terms,  comparatively  speaking.  Frederick  the  Great, 
for  example,  thus  gives  his  verdict  : 

‘ To  convince  yourself  of  the  wretched  taste  that  up  to  this 
day  prevails  in  Germany,  you  have  only  to  visit  the  public 
1 CEuxres,  t.  xlvii.  p.  300. 


VOLTAIRE. 


61 


theatres.  You  will  there  see,  in  action,  the  abominable  plays 
of  Shakspeare,  translated  into  our  language  ; and  the  whole 
audience  fainting  with  rapture  ( se  pumer  d’aise)  in  listening 
to  those  ridiculous  farces,  worthy  of  the  savages  of  Canada. 
I call  them  such,  because  they  sin  against  all  the  rules  of  the 
theatre.  One  may  pardon  those  mad  sallies  in  Shakspeare, 
for  the  birth  of  the  arts  is  never  the  point  of  their  maturity. 
But  here,  even  now,  we  have  a Goetz  de  Berlichingen,  which 
has  just,  made  its  appearance  on  the  scene  ; a detestable  imi- 
tation of  those  miserable  English  pieces  ; and  the  pit  ap- 
plauds, and  demands  with  enthusiasm  the  repetition  of  these 
disgusting  ineptitudes  {de  ces  degoutantes  platitudes).'’ 1 

We  have  not  cited  these  criticisms  with  a view  to  impugn 
them  ; but  simply  to  ascertain  where  the  critics  themselves 
are  standing.  This  passage  of  Frederick’s  has  .even  a touch 
of  pathos  in  it ; may  be  regarded  as  the  expiring  cry  of 
‘ Gout  ’ in  that  country,  who  sees  himself  suddenly  belea- 
guered by  strange,  appalling  Supernatural  Influences,  which 
he  mistakes  for  Lapland  wdtchcraft  or  Cagliostro  jugglery  ; 
which  nevertheless  swell  up  round  him,  irrepressible,  higher, 
ever  higher  ; and  so  he  drowns,  grasping  his  opera-hat,  in  an 
ocean  of  ‘ degoutantes  platitudes.’  On  the  whole,  it  would 
appear  that  Voltaire’s  view  of  poetry  was  radically  different 
from  ours ; that,  in  fact,  of  what  we  should  strictly  call 
poetry,  he  had  almost  no  view  whatever.  A Tragedy,  a 
Poem,  with  him  is  not  to  be  ‘ a manifestation  of  man’s  Reason 
in  forms  suitable  to  his  Sense  ; ’ but  rather  a highly  complex 
egg-dance,  to  be  danced  before  the  King,  to  a given  tune  and 
without  breaking  a single  egg.  Nevertheless,  let  justice  be 
shown  to  him,  and  to  French  poetry  at  large.  This  latter  is 
a peculiar  growth  of  our  modern  ages  ; has  been  laboriously 
cultivated,  and  is  not  without  its  own  value.  We  have  to 
remark  also,  as  a curious  fact,  that  it  has  been,  at.  one  time 
or  other,  transplanted  into  all  countries,  England,  Germany, 
Spain  ; but  though  under  the  sunbeams  of  royal  protection, 
it  would  strike  root  nowhere.  Nay,  now  it  seems  falling  into 

1 Re  la  Litter ature  AUemande ; Berlin,  1780.  We  quote  from  the 
compilation,  Goethe  in  den  Zeugnmen  der  Mitlebenden,  s.  124. 


62 


VOLTAIRE. 


tlie  sere  and  yellow  leaf  in  its  own  natal  soil : the  axe  has 
already  been  seen  near  its-  root ; and  perhaps,  in  no  great 
lapse  of  years,  this  species  of  poetry  may  be  to  the  French, 
what  it  is  to  all  other  nations,  a pleasing  reminiscence.  Yet 
the  elder  French  loved  it  with  zeal ; to  them  it  must  have 
had  a true  worth : indeed  we  can  understand  how,  when  Life 
itself  consisted  so  much  in  Display,  these  representations  of 
Life  may  have  been  the  only  suitable  ones.  And  now,  when 
the  nation  feels  itself  called  to  a more  grave  and  nobler  des- 
tiny among  nations,  the  want  of  a new  literature  also  begins 
to  be  felt.  As  yet,  in  looking  at  their  too  purblind,  scram- 
bling controversies  of  Romanticists  and  Classicists , we  cannot 
find  that  our  ingenious  neighbours  have  done  much  more 
than  make  a commencement  in  this  enterprise ; however,  a 
commencement  seems  to  be  made  : they  are  in  what  may  be 
called  the  eclectic  state  ; trying  all  things,  German,  English, 
Italian,  Spanish,  with  a candour  and  real  love  of  improve- 
ment, which,  give  the  best  omens  of  a still  higher  success. 
From  the  peculiar  gifts  of  the  French,  and  their  peculiar 
spiritual  position,  we  may  expect,  had  they  once  more  at- 
tained to  an  original  style,  many  important  benefits,  and  im- 
portant accessions  to  the  Literature  of  the  World.  Mean- 
while, in  considering  and  duly  estimating  what  that  people 
has,  in  past  times,  accomplished,  Voltaire  must  always  be 
reckoned  among  their  most  meritorious  Poets.  Inferior  in 
what  we  may  call  general  poetic  temperament  to  Racine  ; 
greatly  inferior,  in  some  points  of  it,  to  Corneille,  he  has  an 
intellectual  vivacity,  a quickness  both  of  sight  and  of  inven- 
tion, which  belongs  to  neither  of  these  two.  We  believe  that, 
among  foreign  nations,  his  Tragedies,  such  works  as  Zaire 
and  Mahomet,  are  considerably  the  most  esteemed  of  this 
school. 

However,  it  is  nowise  as  a Poet,  Historian  or  Novelist,  that 
Voltaire  stands  so  prominent  in  Europe  ; but  chiefly  as  a re- 
ligious Polemic,  as  a vehement  opponent  of  the  Christian 
Faith.  Viewed  in  this  last  character,  he  may  give  rise  to 
many  grave  reflections,  only  a small  portion  of  which  can 
here  be  so  much  as  glanced  at.  We  may  say,  in  general,  that 


VOLTAIRE. 


03 


his  style  of  controversy  is  of  a piece  with,  himself  ; not  a 
higher,  and  scarcely  a lower  style  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected from  him.  As,  in  a moral  point  of  view,  Voltaire 
nowise  wanted  a love  of  truth,  yet  had  withal  a still  deeper 
love  of  his  own  interest  in  truth  ; was,  therefore,  intrinsically 
no  Philosopher,  but  a highly  accomplished  Trivialist ; so  like- 
wise, m an  intellectual  point  of  view,  he  manifests  himself 
ingenious  and  adroit,  rather  than  noble  or  comprehensive  ; 
fights  for  truth  or  victory,  not  by  patient  meditation,  but  by 
light  sarcasm,  whereby  victory  may  indeed,  for  a time,  be 
gained  ; but  little  Truth,  what  can  be  named  Truth,  especially 
in  such  matters  as  this,  is  to  be  looked  for. 

No  one,  we  suppose,  ever  arrogated  for  Voltaire  any  praise 
of  originality  in  this  discussion  ; we  sujDpose  there  is  not  a 
single  idea,  of  any  moment,  relating  to  the  Christian  Religion, 
in  all  liis  multifarious  writings,  that  had  not  been  set  forth 
again  and  again  before  his  enterprises  commenced.  The 
labours  of  a very  mixed  multitude,  from  Porphyry  down  to 
Shaftesbury,  including  Hobbeses,  Tindals,  Tolands,  some  of 
them  sceptics  of  a much  nobler  class,  had  left  little  room  for 
merit  in  this  kind  ; nay,  Bayle,  his  own  countryman,  had  just 
finished  a life  spent  in  preaching  scepticism  precisely  similar, 
and  by  methods  precisely  similar,  when  Voltaire  appeared  on 
the  arena.  Indeed,  scepticism,  as  we  have  before  observed, 
was  at  this  period  universal  among  the  higher  ranks  in 
France,  with  whom  Voltaire  chiefly  associated.  It  is  only  in 
the  merit  and  demerit  of  grinding  down  this  grain  into  food 
for  the  people,  and  inducing  so  many  to  eat  of  it,  that  Voltaire 
can  claim  any  singularity.  However,  we  quarrel  not  with 
him  on  this  head  : there  may  be  cases  where  the  'want  of 
originality  is  even  a moral  merit.  But  it  is  a much  more 
serious  ground  of  offence  that  he  intermeddled  in  Religion, 
without  being  himself,  in  any  measure,  religious  ; that  he  en- 
tered the  Temple  and  continued  there,  with  a levity,  which, 
in  any  Temple  where  men  worship,  can  beseem  no  brother 
man ; that,  in  a word,  he  ardently,  and  with  long-continued 
effort,  warred  against  Christianity,  without  understanding  be- 
yond the  mere  superficies  what  Christianity  wns. 


VOLTAIRE. 


64 

His  polemical  procedure  in  this  matter,  it  appears  to  us, 
must  now  be  admitted  to  have  been,  on  the  whole,  a shallow 
one.  Through  all  its  manifold  ' forms,  and  involutions,  and 
repetitions, . it  turns,  we  believe  exclusively,  on  one  point : 
what  Theologians  have  called  the  ‘ plenary  Inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures.’  This  is  the  single  wall,  against  which,  through 
long  years,  and  with  innumerable  battering-rams  and  cata- 
pults and  pop-guns,  he  unweariedly  batters.  Concede  him 
this,  and  his  ram  swings  freely  to  and  fro  through  space : 
there  is  nothing  farther  it  can  even  aim  at.  That  the  Sacred 
Books  could  be  aught  else  than  a Bank-of-Faith  Bill,  for  such 
and  such  quantities  of  Enjoyment,  payable  at  sight  in  the 
other  world,  value  received  ; which  bill  becomes  waste  paper, 
the  stamp  being  questioned : — that  the  Christian  Religion 
could  have  any  deeper  foundation  than  Books,  could  possibly 
be  written  in  the  purest  nature  of  man,  in  mysterious,  in- 
effaceable characters,  to  which  Books,  and  all  Revelations, 
and  authentic  traditions,  were  but  a subsidiary  matter,  were 
but  as  the  light  whereby  that  divine  writing  was  to  be  read  ; 
— nothing  of  this  seems  to  have,  even  in  the  faintest  manner, 
occurred  to  him.  Yet  herein,  as  we  believe  that  the  whole 
world  has.  now  begun  to  discover,  lies  the  real  essence  of  the 
question  ; by  the  negative  or  affirmative  decision  of  which 
the  Christian  Religion,  anything  that  is  worth  calling  by  that 
name,  must  fall  or  endure  forever.  We  believe  also,  that  the 
wiser  minds  of  oiu'  age  have  already  come  to  agreement  on 
this  question  ; or  rather  never  were  divided  regarding  it. 
Christianity,  the  ‘Worship  of  Sorrow,’  has  been  recognised  as 
divine,  on  far  other  grounds  than  ‘ Essays  on  Miracles,’  and 
by  considerations  infinitely  deeper  than  would  avail  in  any 
mere  ‘ trial  by  jury.’  He  who  argues  against  it,  or  for  it,  in 
this  manner,  may  be  regarded  as  mistaking  its  nature  : the 
Ithuriel,  though  to  our  eyes  he  wears  a body  and  the  fashion  of 
armour,  cannot  be  wounded  with  material  steel.  Our  fathers 
were  wiser  than  we,  when  they  said  in  deepest  earnestness, 
what  we  often  hear  in  shallow7  mockery,  that  Religion  is  ‘ not 
of  Sense,  but  of  Faith  ; ’ not  of  Understanding,  but  of  Reason. 
He  who  finds  himself  without  the  latter,  who  by  all  his  study- 


VOLTAIRE. 


65 


ing  lias  failed  to  unfolci  it  in  himself,  may  have  studied  to 
great  or  to  small  purpose,  we  say  not  which  ; but  of  the 
Christian  Religion,  as  of  many  other  things,  he  has  and  can 
have  no  knowledge. 

The  Christian  Doctrine  we  often  hear  likened  to  the  Greek 
Philosophy,  and  found,  on  all  hands,  some  measurable  way 
superior  to  it : but  this  also  seems  a mistake.  The  Christian 
Doctrine,  that  Doctrine  of  Humility,  in  all  senses  godlike  and 
the  parent  of  all  godlike  virtues,  is  not  superior,  or  inferior, 
or  equal,  to  any  doctrine  of  Socrates  or  Thales ; being  of  a 
totally  different  nature  ; differing  from  these,  as  a perfect 
Ideal  Poem  does  from  a correct  Computation  in  Arithmetic. 
He  who  compares  it  with  such  standards  may  lament  that, 
beyond  the  mere  letter,  the  purport  of  this  divine  Humility 
has  never  been  disclosed  to  him ; that  the  loftiest  feeling 
hitherto  vouchsafed  to  mankind  is  as  yet  hidden  from  his 
eyes. 

For  the  rest,  the  question  how  Christianity  originated  is 
doubtless  a high  question  ; resolvable  enough,  if  we  view 
only  its  surface,  which  was  all  that  Voltaire  saw  of  it ; in- 
volved in  sacred,  silent,  unfathomable  depths,  if  we  investi- 
gate its  interior  meanings  ; which  meanings,  indeed,  it  may 
be,  every  new  age  will  develop  to  itself  in  a new  manner  and 
with  new  degrees  of  light  ; for  the  whole  truth  may  be  dalled 
infinite,  and  to  man’s  eye  discernible  only  in  parts  ; but  the 
question  itself  is  nowise  the  ultimate  one  in  this  matter. 

We  understand  ourselves  to  be  risking  no  new  assertion, 
but  simply  reporting  what  is  already  the  conviction  of  the 
greatest  of  our  age,  when  we  say, — that  cheerfully  recognis- 
ing, gratefully  appropriating  whatever  Voltaire  has  proved,  or 
any  other  man  has  proved,  or  shall  prove,  the  Christian  Relig- 
ion, once  here,  cannot  again  pass  away  ; that  in  one  or  the 
other  form,  it  will  endure  through  all  time  ; that  as  in  Script- 
ure, so  also  in  the  heart  of  man,  is  written,  ‘ the  Gates  of 
Hell  shall  not  prevail  against  it.’  Were  the  memory  of  this 
Faith  never  so  obscured,  as,  indeed,  in  all  times,  the  coarse 
passions  and  perceptions  of  the  world  do  all  but  obliterate  it 
in  the  hearts  of  most  ; yet  in  every  pure  soul,  in  evejy  Poet 
5 


66 


VOLTAIRE. 


and  Wise  Man,  it  finds  a new  Missionary,  a new  Martyr,  till 
the  great  volume  of  Universal  History  is  finally  closed,  and 
man’s  destinies  are  fulfilled  in  this  earth.  ‘It  is  a height 
‘ to  which  the  human  species  were  fated  and  enabled  to  at- 
tain ; and  from  which,  having  once  attained  it,  they  can 

‘ never  retrograde.’ 

. ° « 

These  things,  which  it  were  far  out  of  our  place  to  attempt 
adequately  elucidating  here,  must  not  be  left  out  of  sight,  in 
appreciating  Voltaire’s  polemical  worth.  We  find  no  trace  of 
these,  or  of  any  the  like  essential  considerations  having  been 
present  with  him,  in  examining  the  Christian  Religion  ; nor 
indeed  was  it  consistent  with  his  general  habits  that  they 
should  be  so.  Totally  destitute  of  religious  Reverence,  even 
of  - common  practical  seriousness  ; by  nature  or  habit,  unde- 
vout  both  in  heart  and  head  ; not  only  without  any  Belief,  in 
other  than  a material  sense,  but  without  the  possibility  of 
acquiring  any,  he  can  be  no  safe  or  permanently  useful  guide 
in  this  investigation.  We  may  consider  him  as  having  opened 
the  way  to  future  inquirers  of  a truer  spirit ; but  for  his  own 
part,  as  having  engaged  in  an  enterprise,  the  real  nature  of 
which  was  wellnigh  unknown  to  him  ; and  engaged  in  it 
with  the  issue  to  be  anticipated  in  such  a case  ; producing 
chiefly  confusion,  dislocation,  destruction,  on  all  hands  ; so 
that  *the  good  he  achieved  is  still,  in  these  times,  found 
mixed  with  an  alarming  proportion  of  evil,  from  which,  in- 
deed, men  rationally  doubt  whether  much  of  it  will  in  any 
time  be  separable. 

We  should  err  widely  too,  if,  in  estimating  what  quantity, 
altogether  overlooking  what  quality,  of  intellect  Voltaire  may 
have  manifested  on  this  occasion,  we  took  the  result  pro- 
duced as  any  measure  of  the  force  applied.  His  task  was  not 
one  of  Affirmation,  but  of  Denial ; not  a task  of  erecting  and 
rearing  up,  which  is  slow  and  laborious ; but  of  destroying 
and  oyerturning,  which  in  most  cases  is  rapid  and  far  easier. 
The  force  necessary  for  him  was  nowise  a great  and  noble 
one  ; but  a small,  in  some  respects  a mean  one  ; to  be  nimbly 
and  seasonably  put  in  use.  The  Ephesian  Temple,  which  it 
had  employed  many  wise  heads  and  strong  arms  for  a life- 


VOLTAIliE. 


67 


time  to  build,  could  be  unbuilt  by  one  madman,  in  a single 
hour. 

Of  such  errors,  deficiencies  and  positive  misdeeds,  it  ap- 
pears to  us  a just  criticism  must  accuse  Voltaire  : at  the  same 
time,  we  can  nowise  joiu  in  the  condemnatory  clamour  which 
so  many  worthy  persons,  not  without  the  best  intentions,  to 
this  day  keep  up  against  him.  His  wdiole  character  seems  to 
be  plain  enough,  common  enough,  had  not  extraneous  influ- 
ences so  perverted  our  views  regarding  it : nor,  morally 
speaking,  is  it  a worse  character,  but  considerably  a better 
one,  than  belongs  to  the  mass  of  men.  Voltaire’s  aims  in  op- 
posing the  Christian  Religion  were  unhappily  of  a mixed  nat- 
ure ; yet,  after  all,  very  nearly  such  aims  as  we  have  often 
seen  directed  against  it,  and  often  seen  directed  in  its  favour  : 
a little  love  of  finding  Truth,  with  a great  love  of  making 
Proselytes  ; which  last  is  in  itself  a natural,  universal  feeling  ; 
and  if  honest,  is,  even  in  the  worst  cases,  a subject  for  pity, 
rather  than  for  hatred.  As  a light,  careless,  courteous  Man 
of  the  World,  he  offers  no  hateful  aspect ; on  the  contrary,  a 
kindly,  gay,  rather  amiable  one  : hundreds  of  men,  with  half 
his  worth  of  disposition,  die  daily,  and  their  little  world 
laments  them.  It  is  time  that  he  too  should  be  judged  of  by 
his  intrinsic,  not  by  his  accidental  qualities ; that  justice 
should  be  done  to  him  also  ; for  injustice  can  profit  no  man 
and  no  cause. 

Iu  fact,  Voltaire’s  chief  merits  belong  to  Nature  and  him- 
self ; his  chief  faults  are  of  his  time  and  country.  In  that 
famous  era  of  the  Pompadours  and  Encyclopcdies,  he  forms 
the  main  figure  ; and  was  such,  we  have  seen,  more  by  re- 
sembling the  multitude,  than  by  differing  from  them.  It  was 
a strange  age  that  of  Louis  XV. ; in  several  points  a novel  one 
in  the  history  of  mankind.  In  regard  to  its  luxury  and  de- 
pravity, to  the  high  culture  of  all  merely  practical  and  ma- 
terial faculties,  and  the  entire  torpor  of  all  the  purely  con- 
templative and  spiritual,  this  era  considerably  resembles  that 
of  the  Roman  Emperors.  There  too  was  external  splendour 
and  internal  squalor  ; the  highest  completeness  in  all  sensual 
arts,  including  among  these  not  cookery  and  its  adjuncts 


68 


VOLTAIRE. 


alone,  but  even  ‘ effect-painting  ’ and  ‘ effect-writing  ; ’ only 
the  art  of  virtuous  living  was  a lost  one.  Instead  of  Love  for 
Poetry,  there  was  ‘Taste  ’ for  it  ; refinement  in  manners,  with 
utmost  coarseness  in  morals  : in  a word,  the  strange  spectacle 
of  a Social  System,  embracing  large,  cultivated  portions  of 
the  human  species,  and  founded  only  on  Atheism.  With  .the 
Romans,  things  went  what  we  should  call  their  natural 
course  : Liberty,  public  spirit  quietly  declined  into  caput- 
mortuum ; Self-love,  Materialism,  Baseness  even  to  the  dis- 
belief in  all  possibility  of  Virtue,  stalked  more  and  more  im- 
periously abroad  ; till  the  body-politic,  long  since  deprived 
of  its  vital  circulating  fluids,  had  now  become  a putrid  car- 
cass, and  fell  in.  pieces  to  be  the  prey  of  ravenous  wolves. 
Then  was  there,  under  these  Attilas  and  Alarics  a world- 
spectacle  of  destruction  and  despair,  compared  with  which 
the  often-commemorated  ‘ horrors  of  the  French  Revolution,’ 
and  all  Napoleon’s  wars,  were  but  the  gay  jousting  of  a tour- 
nament to  the  sack  of  stormed  cities.  Our  European  com- 
munity has  escaped  the  like  dire  consummation  ; and  by 
causes  which,  as  may  be  hoped,  will  always  secure  it  from 
such.  Nay,  were  there  no  other  cause,  it  may  be  asserted, 
that  in  a commonwealth  where  the  Christian  Religion  ex- 
ists, where  it  once  has  existed,  public  and  private  Virtue,  the 
basis  of  all  Strength,  never  can  become  extinct ; but  in  every 
new  age,  and  even  from  the  deepest  decline,  there  is  a chance, 
and  in  the  course  of  ages  a certainty  of  renovation. 

That  the  Christian  Religion,  or  any  Religion,  continued  to 
exist  ; that  some  martyr  heroism  still  lived  in  the  heart  of 
Europe  to  rise  against  mailed  Tyranny  when  it  rode  trium- 
phant,— was  indeed  no  merit  in  the  age  of  Louis  XV.,  but  a 
happy  accident  which  it  could  not  altogether  get  rid  of.  For 
that  age  too  is  to  be  regarded  as  an  experiment,  on  the  great 
scale,  to  decide  the  question,  not  yet,  it  would  appear,  settled 
to  universal  satisfaction : With  what  degree  of  vigour  a political 
system,  grounded  on  pure  Self-interest,  never  so  enlightened, 
but  without  a God  or  any  recognition  of  the  god-like  in  man, 
can  be  expected  to  flourish  ; or  whether,  in  such  circumstances, 
a political  system  can  be  expected  to  flourish,  or  even  to  sub- 


VOLTAIRE. 


69 


sist  at  all  ? It  is  contended  by  .many  that  our  mere  love  of 
personal  Pleasure,  or  Happiness  as  it  is  called,  acting  on  every 
individual,  with  such  clearness  as  he  may  easily  have,  -will  of 
itself  lead  him  to  respect  the  rights  of  others,  and  wisely  em- 
ploy his  own  ; to  fulfil,  on  a mere  principle  of  economy,  all 
the  duties  of  a good  patriot  ; so  that,  in  what  respects  the 
State,  or  the  mere  social  existence  of  mankind,  Belief,  beyond 
the  testimony  of  the  senses,  and  Virtue,  beyond  the  very  com- 
mon Virtue  of  loving  what  is  pleasant  and  hating  what  is  pain- 
ful, are  to  be  considered  as  supererogatory  qualifications,  as 
ornamental,  not  essential.  Many  there  are,  on  the  other  hand, 
who  pause  over  this  doctrine  ; cannot  discover,  in  such  a uni- 
verse of  conflicting  atoms,  any  principle  by  which  the  whole 
shall  cohere  ; for  if  every  man’s  selfishness,  infinitely  expansive, 
is  to  be  hemmed-in  only  by  the  infinitely-expansive  selfishness 
of  every  other  man,  it  seems  as  if  we  should  have  a world  of 
mutually  repulsive  bodies  with  no  centripetal  force  to  bind 
them  together  ; in  which  case,  it  is  well  known,  they  would, 
by  and  by,  diffuse  themselves  over  space,  and  constitute  a re- 
markable Chaos,  but  no  habitable  Solar  or  Stellar  System. 

If  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  was  not  made  an  experimentum 
crucis  in  regard  to  this  question,  one  reason  may  be,  that  such 
experiments  are  too  expensive.  Nature  cannot  afford,  above 
once  or  twice  in  the  thousand  years,  to  destroy  a whole  world, 
for  purposes  of  science  ; but  must  content  herself  with  de- 
stroying one  or  two  kingdoms.  The  age  of  Louis  XV.,  so  far 
as  it  went,  seems  a highly  illustrative  experiment.  Me  are  to 
remark  also,  that  its  operation  was  clogged  by  a very  consid- 
erable disturbing  force  ; by  a large  remnant,  namely,  of  the 
old  faith  in  Religion,  in  the  invisible,  celestial  nature  of 
Virtue,  which  our-  French  Purifiers,  by  their  utmost  efforts’ of 
lavation,  had  not  been  able  to  wash  away.  The  men  did  their 
best,  but  no  man  can  do  more.  Their  worst  enemy,  we  imag- 
ine, will  not  accuse  them  of  any  undue  regard  to  things  un- 
seen and  spiritual : far  from  practising  this  invisible  sort  of 
Virtue,  they  cannot  even  believe  in  its  possibility.  The  high 
exploits  and  endurances  of  old  ages  were  no  longer  virtues, 
but  ‘ passions  ; ’ these  antique  persons  had  a taste  for  being 


70 


VOLTAIRE. 


lieroes,  a certain  fancy  to  clie  for  the'  truth : the  more  fools 
they  ! With  our  Philosophes,  the  only  virtue  of  any  civilisa- 
tion was  what  they  call  ‘ Honour,’  the  sanctioning  deity  of 
which  is  that  wonderful  ‘ Force  of  Public  Opinion.’  Concern- 
ing which  virtue  of  Honour,  we  must  be  permitted  to  say, 
that  she  reveals  herself  too  clearly  as  the  daughter  and  heiress 
of  our  old  acquaintance  Vanity,  who  indeed  has  been  known 
enough  ever  since  the  foundation  of  the  world,  at  least  since 
the  date  of  that  ‘Lucifer,  son  of  the  Morning;’  but  known 
chiefly  in  her  proper  character  of  strolling  actress,  or  cast- 
clothes  Abigail ; and  never,  till  that  new  era,  had  seen  her 
issue  set  up  as  Queen  and  all-sufficient  Dictatress  of  man’s 
whole  soul,  prescribing  with  nicest  precision  what,  in  all  prac- 
tical and  all  moral  emergencies,  he  was  to  do  and  to  forbear. 
Again,  with  regard  to  this  same  Force  of  Public  Opinion,  it 
is  a force  well  known  to  all  of  us  ; respected,  valued  as  of  in- 
dispensable utility,  but  nowise  recognised  as  a final  or  divine 
force.  We  might  ask,  What  divine,  what  truly  great  thing 
had  ever  been  effected  by  this  force?  Was  it  the  Force  of 
Public  Opinion  that  drove  Columbus  to  America  ; John  Kep- 
ler, not  to  fare  sumptuously  among  Piodolph’s  Astrologers  and 
Fire-eaters,  but  to  perish  of  want,  discovering  the  tine  System 
of  the  Stars  ? Still  more  ineffectual  do  we  find  it  as  a basis  of 
public  or  private  Morals.  Nay,  taken  by  itself,  it  may  be 
called  a baseless  basis : for  without  some  ulterior  sanction, 
common  to  all  minds  ; without  some  belief  in  the  necessary, 
eternal,  or  which  is  the  same,  in  the  supramundane,  divine 
nature  of  Virtue,  existing  in  each  individual,  what  could  the 
moral  judgment  of  a thousand  or  a thousand-thousand  indi- 
viduals avail  us  ? Without  some  celestial  guidance,  whence- 
soever derived,  or  howsoever  named,  it  appears  to  us  the  Force 
of  Public  Opinion  would,  by  and  by,  become  an  extremely  un- 
profitable one.  “ Enlighten  Self-interest ! ” cries  the  Philoso- 
phe  ; “ do  but  sufficiently  enlighten  it ! ” We  ourselves  have 
seen  enlightened  Self-interests,  ere  now ; and  truly,  for  most 
part,  their  light  was  only  as  that  of  a horn-lantern,  sufficient 
to  guide  the  bearer  himself  out  of  various  puddles ; but  to  us 
and  the  world  of  comparatively  small  advantage.  And  figure 


VOLTAIRE. 


71 


tlie  human  species,  like  an  endless  host,  seeking  its  way  on- 
wards through  undiscovered  Time,  in  black  ’ darkness,  save 
that  each  had  his  horn-lantern,  and  the  vanguard  some  few  of 
glass ! 

However,  we  will  not  dwell  on  controversial  niceties.  What 
we  had  to  remark  was,  that  this  era,  called  of  Philosophy, 
was  in  itself  but  a poor  era  ; that  any  little  morality  it  had 
was  chiefly  borrowed,  and  from  those  very  ages  which  it  ac- 
counted so  barbarous.  For  this  ‘ Honour,’  this  ‘ Force  of 
Public  Opinion,’  is  not  asserted,  on  any  side,  to  have  much 
renovating,  but  only  a sustaining  or  preventive  power  ; it  can- 
not create  new  Virtue,  but  at  best  may  preserve  what  is  al- 
ready there.  Nay,  of  the  age  of  Louis  XV.,  we  may  say  that 
its  very  Power,  its  material  strength,  its  knowledge,  all  that  it 
had,  was  borrowed.  It  boasted  itself  to  be  an  age  of  illumina- 
tion ; and  truly  illumination  there  was  of  its  kind  : only,  ex- 
cept the  illuminated  windows,  almost  nothing  to  be  seen  there- 
by. None  of  those  great  Doctrines  or  Institutions  that  have 
‘ made  man  in  all  points  a man  ; ’ none  even  of  those  Discov- 
eries that  have  the  most  subjected  external  Nature  to  his  pur- 
poses, were  made  in  that  age.  What  Plough  or  Printing-press, 
what  Chivalry  or  Christianity,  nay  what  Steam-engine,  or 
Quakerism,  or  Trial  by  Jury,  did  these  Encyclopedists  invent 
for  mankind  ? They  invented  simply  nothing : not  one  of 
man’s  virtues,  not  one  of  man’s  powers,  is  due  .to  them ; in  all 
these  respects  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  is  among  the  most  barren 
of  recorded  ages.  Indeed,  the  whole  trade  of  our  Fhilosophes 
was  directly  the  opposite  of  invention  : it  was  not  to  produce, 
that  they  stood  there  ; but  to  criticise,  to  quarrel  with,  to  rend 
in  pieces,  what  had  been  already  produced  ; — a quite  inferior 
trade  : sometimes  a useful,  but  on  the  wliole  a mean  trade  ; 
often  the  fruit,  and  always  the  parent,  of  meanness,  in  every 
mind  that  permanently  follow's  it. 

Considering  the  then  position  of  affairs,  it  is  not  singular 
that  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  should  have  been  what  it  w-as  ; an 
age  without  nobleness,  without  high  virtue,  or  high  manifes- 
tations of  talent ; an  age  of  shallow  clearness,  of  polish,  self- 
conceit,  scepticism  and  all  forms  of  Persiflage.  As  little  does 


72 


VOLTAIRE. 


it  seem  surprising,  or  peculiarly  blamable,  that  Voltaire,  the 
leading  man  of  that  age,  should  have  partaken  largely  of  all 
its  qualities.  True  his  giddy  activity  took  serious  effect ; the 
light  firebrands,  which  he  so  carelessly  scattered  abroad, 
kindled  fearful  conflagrations  : but  in  these  there  has  been 
good  as  well  as  evil ; nor  is  it  just  that,  even  for  the  latter, 
he,  a limited  mortal,  should  be  charged  with  more  than  mor- 
tal’s responsibility.  After  all,  that  parched,  blighted  period, 
and  the.  period  of  earthquakes  and  tornadoes  which  followed 
it,  have  now  well-nigh  cleared  away  : they  belong  to  the  Past, 
and  for  us,  and  those  that  come  after  us,  are  not  withcfut  their 
benefits*  and  calm  historical  meaning. 

‘ The  thinking  heads  of  all  nations,’  says  a deep  observer, 
! had  in  secret  come  to  majority  ; and  in  a mistaken  feeling 
of  their  vocation,  rose  the  more  fiercely  against  antiquated 
constraint.  The  Man  of  Letters  is,  by  instinct,  opposed  to  a 
Priesthood  of  old  standing  : the  literary  class  and  the  clerical 
must  wage  a war  of  extermination,  when  they  are  divided ; 
for  both  strive  after  one  place.  Such  division  became  more 
and  more  perceptible,  the  nearer  we  approached  the  period 
of  European  manhood,  the  epoch  of  triumphant  Learning  ; 
and  Knowledge  and  Faith  came  into  more  decided  contradic- 
tion. In  the  prevailing  Faith,  as  was  thought,  lay  the  reason 
of  the  universal  degradation  ; and  by  a more  and  more  search- 
ing Knowledge  men  hoped  to  remove  it.  On  all  hands,  the 
Religious  feeling  suffered,  under  manifold  attacks  against  its 
actual  manner  of  existence,  against  the  forms  in  which  hitherto 
it  had  embodied  itself.  The  result  of  that  modern  way  of 
thought  was  named  Philosophy  ; and  in  this  all  was  included 
that  opposed  itself  to  the  ancient  way  of  thought,  especially, 
therefore,  all  that  opposed  itself  to  Religion,  The  original 
personal  hatred  against  the  Catholic  Faith  passed,  by  degrees, 
into  hatred  against  the  Bible,  against  the  Christian  Religion, 
and  at  last  against  Religion  altogether.  Nay  more,  this  hatred 
-of  Religion  naturally  extended  itself  over  all  objects  of  en- 
thusiasm in  general  ; proscribed  Fancy  and  Feeling,  Morality 
and  love  of  Art,  the  Future  and  the  Antique  ; placed  man, 
with  an  effort,  foremost  in  the  series  of  natural  productions  ; 
and  changed  the  infinite,  creative  music  of  the  Universe  into 
the  monotonous  clatter  of  a boundless  Mill,  which,  turned  by 
the  stream  of  Chance,  and  swimming  thereon,  was  a Mill  of 


VOLTAIRE. 


73 


itself,  without  Architect  and  Miller,  properly  a genuine  per- 
petuum  mobile,  a real  self-grinding  Mill. 

‘ One  enthusiasm  was  generously  left  to  poor  mankind,  and 
rendered  indispensable  as  a touchstone  of  the  highest  culture, 
for  all  jobbers  in  the  same : Enthusiasm  for  this  inagnamimous 
Philosophy,  and  above  all,  for  these  its  priests  and  mysta- 
gogues.  France  was  so  happy  as  to  be  the  birthplace  and 
dwelling  of  this  new  Faith,  whieh  had  thus,  from  patches  of 
pare  knowledge,  been  pasted  together.  Low  as  Poetry  ranked 
in  this  new  Church,  there  were  some  poets  among  them,  who, 
for  effect’s  sake,  made  use  of  the  old  ornaments  and  old  lights  ; 
but  in  so  doing,  ran  a risk  of  kindling  the  new  world-system 
by  ancient  fire.  More  cunning  brethren,  however,  were  at 
hand  to  help  ; and  always  in  season  poured  cold  water  on  the 
warming  audience.  The  members  of  this  Church  were  rest- 
lessly employed  in  clearing  Nature,  the  Earth,  the  Souls  of 
men,  the  Sciences,  from  all  Poetry  ; obliterating  every  vestige 
of  the  Holy  ; disturbing,  by  sarcasms,  the  memory  of  all  lofty 
occurrences  and  lofty  men  ; disrobing  the  world  of  all  its  va- 
riegated vesture.  * * * Pity  that  Nature  continued  so 

wondrous  and  incomprehensible,  so  poetical  and  infinite,  all 
efforts  to  modernise  her  notwithstanding  ! However,  if  any- 
where  an  old  superstition,  of  a higher  world  and  the  like, 
came  to  light,  instantly,  on  all  hands,  was  a springing  of  rat- 
tles ; that,  if  possible,  the  dangerous  spark  might  be  extin- 
guished, by  appliances  of  philosphy  and  wit : yet  Tolerance 
was  the  watchword  of  the  cultivated  ; and  in  France,  above 
all,  synonymous  with  Philosophy.  Highly  remarkable  is  this 
history  of  modern  Fnbelief  ; the  key  to  all  the  vast  phenomena 
of  recent  times.  Not  till  last  century,  till  the  latter  half  of  it, 
does  the  novelty  begin  ; and  in  a little  while,  it  expands  to 
an  immeasurable  bulk  and  variety  : a second  Reformation,  a 
more  comprehensive,  and  more  specific,  was  unavoidable  ; 
and  naturally  it  first  visited  that  land  which  was  the  most 
modernised,  and  had  the  longest  lain  in  an  asthenic  state, 
from  want  of  freedom.  ' * * * 

‘ At  the  present  epoch,  however,  we  stand  high  enough  to 
look  back  with  a friendly  smile  on  those  bygone  days ; and 
even  in  those  marvellous  follies  to  discern  curious  crystallisa- 
tions of  historical  matter.  Thankfully  will  we  stretch  out  our . 
hands  to  those  Men  of  Letters  and  Philosophes : for  this  de- 
lusion too  required  to  be  exhausted,  and  the  scientific  side  of 
things  to  have  full  value  given  it.  More  beauteous  and  many- 
coloured  stands  Poesy,  like  a leafy  India,  when  contrasted 


74 


VOLTAIRE. 


with  the  cold,  dead  Spitsbergen  of  that  Closet-Logic.  That 
in  the  middle  of  the  globe,  an  India,  so  warm  and  lordly, 
might  exist,  must  also  a cold  motionless  sea,  dead  cliffs,  mist 
instead  of  the  starry  sliy,  and  a long  night  make  both  poles 
uninhabitable.  The  deep  meaning  of  the  laws  of  Mechanism 
lay  heavy  on  those  anchorites  in  the  deserts  of  Understand- 
ing : the  charm  of  the  first  glimpse  into  it  overpowered  them : 
the  Old  avenged  itself  on  them ; to  the  first  feeling  of  self- 
consciousness,  they  sacrificed,  with  wondrous  devotedness, 
what  was  holiest  and  fairest  in  the  world  ; and  were  the  first 
that,  in  practice,  again  recognised  and  preached  forth  the  sa- 
credness of  Nature,  the  infinitude  of  Art,  the  independence 
of  Knowledge,  the  worth  of  the  Practical,  and  the  all-presence 
of  the  Spirit  of  History  ; and  so  doing,  put  an  end  to  a Spec- 
tre-dynasty, more  potent,  universal  and  terrific  than  perhaps 
they  themselves  were  aware  of.’ 1 

How  far  our  readers  will  accompany  Novalis  in  such  high- 
soaring  speculation,  is  not  for  us  to  say.  Meanwhile,  that 
the  better  part  of  them  have  already,  in  their  own  dialect, 
united  with  him,  and  with  us,  in  candid  tolerance,  in  clear 
acknowledgment,  towards  French  Philosophy,  towards  this 
Voltaire  and  the  spiritual  period  which  bears  his  name,  we 
do  not  hesitate  to  believe.  Intolerance,  animosity  can  for- 
ward no  cause  ; and  least  of 'all  beseems  the  cause  of  moral 
and  religious  truth.  A "wise  man  has  well  reminded  us,  that 
‘in  any  controversy,  the  instant  we  feel  angry,  we  have  al- 
‘ ready  ceased  striving  for  Truth,  and  begun  striving  for 
‘Ourselves.’  Let  no  man  doubt  but  Voltaire  and  his  disciples, 
like  all  men  and  all  things  that  live  and  act  in  God’s  world, 
will  one  day  be  found  to  have  ‘worked  together  for  good.’ 
Nay  that,  with  all  his  evil,  he  has  already  accomplished  good, 
must  be  admitted  in  the  soberest  calculation.  How  much  do 
we  include  in  this  little  word  : He  gave  the  death-stab  to 
modern  Superstition  ! That  horrid  incubus,  which  dwelt  in 
darkness,  shunning  the  light,  is  passing  away  ; with  all  its 
racks,  and  poison-chalices,  and  foul  sleeping-draughts,  is 
passing  away  without  return.  It  was  a most  weighty  service. 
Does  not  the  cry  of  “No  Popery,”  and  some  vague  terror  or 
1 Novalis  Scliriften,  i.  s.  198. 


VOLTAIRE. 


75 


sham-terror  of  ‘ Smithfield  fires,’  still  act  on  certain  minds  in 
these  very  days  ? He  who  sees  even  a little  way  into  the 
signs  of  the  times,  sees  well  that  both  the  Smithfield  fires,  and 
the  Edinburgh  thumb  screws  (for  these  too  must  be  held  in 
remembrance)  are  things  which  have  long,  very  long,  lain  be- 
hind us  ; divided  from  us  by  a wall  of  Centuries,  transparent 
indeed,  but  more  impassable  than  adamant.  For,  as  we 
said,  Superstition  is  in  its  death-lair : the  last  agonies  may 
endure  for  decades,  or  for  centuries  ; but  it  carries  the  iron 
in  its  heart,  and  will  not  vex  the  earth  any  more. 

That,  with  Superstition,  Eeligion  is  also  passing  away, 
seems  to  us  a still  moi’e  ungrounded  fear.  Eeligion  cannot 
pass  away.  The  burning  of  a little  straw  may  hide  the  stars 
of  the  sky  ; but  the  stars  are  there,  and  will  re-appear.  On 
the  whole,  we  must  repeat  the  often-repeated  saying,  that  it 
is  unworthy  a religious  man  to  view  an  irreligious  one  either 
with  alarm  or  aversion  ; or  with  any  other  feeling  than  regret, 
and  hope,  and  brotherly  commiseration.  If  he  seek  Truth, 
is  he  not  our  brother,  and  to  be  pitied  ? If  he  do  not  seek 
Truth,  is  he  not  still  our  brother,  and  to  be  pitied  still  more  ? 
Old  Ludovicus  Vives  has  a story  of  a clown  that  killed  his  ass 
because  it  had  drunk  up  the  moon,  and  he  thought  the  world 
could  ill  spare  that  luminary.  * So  he  killed  his  ass,  ut  lunam 
redderet.  The  clown  was  well-intentioned,  but  unwise.  Let 
us  not  imitate  him  : let  us  not  slay  a faithful  servant,  who 
has  carried  us  far.  He  has  not  drunk  the  moon  ; but  only 
the  reflection  of  the  moon,  in  his  own  poor  water-pail,  where 
too,  it  may  be,  he  was  drinking  with  purposes  the  most 
harmless. 


NOVALIS 


NOVALIS. 


No  good  Book,  or  good  thing  of  any  sort,  shows  its  best  face  at  first : 
Improvisators,  and  their  literary  soap-bubbles.  Men  of  genius : The 
wise  man's  errors  more  instructive  than  the  truisms  of  a fool.  What  is 
called  ‘ reviewing  ; ’ showing  how  a small  Reviewer  maj  triumph  over 
a great  Author,  and  what  his  triumph  is  worth.  The  writings  of  Novalis 
of  too  much  importance  to  be  lightly  passed  by.  (p.  79). — Novalis’s 
birth  and  parentage  : Religious  and  secluded  Childhood : Schooling. 
Applies  himself  honestly  to  business.  Death  of  his  first  love  C'om- 
nnmings  with  Eternity.  Influence  on  his  character  of  this  wreck  of  his 
first  passionate  wish  : Doctrine  of  ‘ Renunciation.’  Peace  and  cheer- 
fulness of  his  life  : Interest  in  the  physical  sciences.  Acquaintance 
and  literary  cooperation  with  Schlegel  and  Tieck.  Alarming  illness : 
Hopeful  literary  projects  : Gradual  bodily  decline,  and  peaceful  death. 
Manners,  and  personal  aspect.  (86). — Wonderful  depth  and  originality 
of  his  writings  : His  philosophic  mysticism.  Idealism  not  confined  to 
Germany.  The  Kantean  view  of  the  material  Universe  : Its  intellectual 
and  moral  bearing  on  the  practical  interests  of  men.  Influence  on  the 
deep,  religious  spirit  of  Novalis  : Nature  no  longer  dead,  hostile  Blat- 
ter ; but  the  veil  and  mysterious  Garment  of  the  Unseen  : The  Beauty 
of  Goodness,  the  only  real,  final  possession.  (98). — Extracts  from  the 
Lehrlinffle  su  Sais , &c.  ; Manifold  significance  of  all  natural  phenomena 
to  the  true  observer  ; Beauty  and  omnipotence  of  childlike  intuition ; 
How  the  chastened  understanding  may  be  brought  into  harmony  with 
the  deepest  intuitions,  and  the  most  rigid  facts  : Nature,  as  viewed  by 
the  superstitious  fanatic,  the  utilitarian  inquirer,  the  sceptical  idealist, 
and  the  regenerate  Soul  of  man  : The  mechanics  and  dynamics  of 
Thought ; Eclectic  Philosophers  : Philosophic  Fragments.  (107). — No- 
valis  as  a Poet : Extracts  from  Hymns  to  the  Night,  and  Heinrich  von  Of- 
terdingen.  His  writings  an  unfathomed  mine,  where  the  keenest  intel- 
lect may  find  occupation  enough  : His  power  of  intense  abstraction  : 
His  chief  fault  a certain  undue  passiveness.  Likeness  to  Dante  and 
Pascal.  Intelligent,  well-informed  minds  should  endeavour  to  under- 
stand even  Mysticism.  Mechanical  Superciliousness  versus  living  Be- 
lief in  God  ; the  victory  not  doubtful.  (121). 


•NOYALIB.1 


[1829.] 

A number  of  years  ago,  Jean  Paul's  copy  of  Novalis  led  him 
to  infer  that  the  German  reading-world  was  of  a quick  dispo- 
sition ; inasmuch  as,  with  respect  to  books  that  required  more 
than  one  perusal,  it  declined  perusing  them  at  all.  .Paul’s 
Novalis,  we  suppose,  was  of  the  first  Edition,  uncut,  dusty, 
and  lent  him  from  the  Public  Library  with  willingness,  nay 
with  joy.  But  times,  it  would  appear,  must  be  considerably 
changed  since  then  ; indeed,  were  we  to  judge  of  German 
reading  habits  from  these  Volumes  of  ours,  we  should  draw 
quite  a different  conclusion  to  Paul’s  ; for  they  are  of  the 
fourth  Edition,  perhaps  therefore  the  ten-thousandth  copy, 
and  that  of  a Book  demanding,  whether  deserving  or  not,  to 
be  oftener  read  than  almost  any  other  it  has  ever  been  our  lot 
to  examine. 

Without  at  all  entering  into  the  merits  of  Novalis,  we  may 
observe  that  we  should  reckon  it  a happy  sign  of  Literature, 
were  so  solid  a fashion  of  study  here  and  there  established  in 
all  countries  : for  directly  in  the  teeth  of  most  c intellectual 
tea-circles,’  it  may  be  asserted  that  no  good  Book,  or  good 
thing  of  any  sort,  shows  its  best  face  at  first  ; nay  that  the 
commonest  quality  in  a true  work  of  Art,  if  its  excellence  have 
any  depth  and  compass,  is  that  at  first  sight  it  occasions  a 
certain  disappointment ; perhaps  even,  mingled  with  its  un- 

1 Foreign  Review,  No.  7. — Novalis  Schriften.  Hercnisgegehen  ton 
Ludicig  Tieck  und  Friedrich  Schlegel  (Novalis’  Writings.  Edited  'by- 
Ludwig  Tieck  and  Friedrich  Sclilegel).  Fourth  Edition.  2 vols.  Berlin, 
1826. 


80 


NOV  ALTS. 


deniable  beauty,  a certain  feeling  of  aversion.  Not  as  if  we 
meant,  by  this  remark,  to  cast  a stone  at  the  old  guild  of  liter- 
ary Improvisators,  or  any  of  that  diligent  brotherhood,  whose 
trade  it  is  to  blow  soap-bubbles  for  their  fellow-creatures  ; 
which  bubbles,  of  course,  if  they  are  not  seen  and  admired 
this  moment,  will  be  altogether  lost  to  men’s  eyes  the  next. 
Considering  the  use  of  these  blowers,  in  civilised  communi- 
ties, we  rather  wish  them  strong  lungs,  and  all  manner  of 
prosperity  : but  simply  we  would  contend  that  such  soap- 
bubble  guild  should  not  become  the  sole  one  in  Literature, 
that  being  indisputably  the  strongest,  it  should  content  itself 
with  this  preeminence,  and  not  tyrannically  annihilate  its  less 
prosperous  neighbours.  For  it  should  be  recollected  that 
Literature  positively  has  other  aims  than  this  of  amusement 
from  hour  to  hour  ; nay  perhaps  that  this,  glorious  as  it  may 
be,  is  not  its  highest  or  true  aim.  We  do  say,  therefore,  that 
the  Improvisator  corporation  should  be  kept  within  limits  ; 
and  readers,  at  least  a certain  small  class  of  readers,  should 
understand  that  some  few  departments  of  human  inquiry  have 
still  their  depths  and  difficulties  ; that  the  abstruse  is  not  pre- 
cisely synonymous  with  the  absurd  ; nay  that  light  itself  may 
be  darkness,  in  a certain  state  of  the  eyesight  ; that,  in  short, 
cases  may  occur  when  a little  patience  and  some  attempt  at 
thought  would  not  be  altogether  superfluous  in  reading.  Let 
the  mob  of  gentlemen  keep  their  own  ground,  and  be  happy 
and  applauded  there  : if  they  overstep  that  ground,  they  in- 
deed may  flourish  the  better  for  it,  but  the  reader  will  suffer 
damage.  For  in  this  wav,  a reader  accustomed  to  see  through 
everything  in  one  second  of  time,  comes  to  forget  that  his 
wisdom  and  critical  penetration  are  finite  and  not  infinite  ; 
and  so  commits  more  than  one  mistake  in  his  conclusions. 
The  Reviewer  too,  who  indeed  is  only  a preparatory  reader, 
as  it  were  a sort  of  sieve  and  drainer  for  the  use  of  more  lux- 
urious readers,  soon  follows  his  example  : these  two  react  still 
farther  on  the  mob  of  gentlemen  ; and  so  among  them  all, 
with  this  action  and  reaction,  matters  grow  worse  and  worse. 

It  rather  seems  to  us  as  if,  in  this  respect  of  faithfulness  in 
reading,  the  Germans  were  somewhat  ahead  of  us  English  ; at 


NOYALIS. 


81 


least  we  have  no  such  proof  to  show  of  it  as  that  fourth  Edition 
of  Novalis.  Our  Coleridge’s  Friend,  for  example,  and  Bio- 
grapKia  Literaria  are  but  a slight  business  compared  with  these 
Schriften  ; little  more  than  the  Alphabet,  and  that  in  gilt  let- 
ters, of  such  Philosophy  and  Art  as  is  here  taught  in  the  form 
of  Grammar  and  Rhetorical  Compend  : yet  Coleridge’s  works 
were  triumphantly  condemned  by  the  whole  reviewing  world, 
as  clearly  unintelligible  ; and  among  readers  they  have  still 
but  an  unseen  circulation  ; like  living  brooks,  hidden  for  the 
present  under  mountains  of  froth  and  theatrical  snow-paper, 
and  which  only  at  a distant  day,  when  these  mountains  shall 
have  decomposed  themselves  into  gas  and  earthly  residuum, 
may  roll  forth  in  them  true  limpid  shape,  to  gladden  the  gen- 
eral eye  with  what  beauty  and  everlasting  freshness  does  re- 
side in  them.  It  is  admitted  too,  on  all  hands,  that  Mr. 
Coleridge  is  a man  of  ‘genius,’  that  is,  a man  having  more 
intellectual  insight  than  other  men  ; and  strangely  enough* 
it  is  taken  for  granted,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  has  less 
intellectual  insight  than  any  other.  For  why  else  are  his 
doctrines  to  be  thrown  out  of  doors,  without  examination,  as 
false  and  worthless,  simply  because  they  are  obscure  ? Or 
how  is  their  so  palpable  falsehood  to  be  accounted  for  to  our 
minds,  except  on  this  extraordinary  ground  : that  a man  able 
to  originate  deep  thoughts  (such  is  the  meaning  of  genius)  is 
unable  to  see  them  when  originated ; that  the  creative  intellect 
of  a Philosopher  is  destitute  of  that  mere  faculty  of  logic 
which  belongs  to  ‘ all  Attorneys,  and  men  educated  in  Edin- 
burgh ? ’ The  Cambridge  carrier,  when  asked  whether  his 
horse  could  “ draw  inferences,”  readily  replied,  “ Yes,  any- 
thing in  reason  ; ” but  here,  it  seems,  is  a man  of  genius  who 
has  no  similar  gift. 

We  ourselves,  we  confess,  are  too  young  in  the  study  of 
human  nature  to  have  met  with  any  such  anomaly.  Never 
yet  has  it  been  our  fortune  to  fall  in  with  any  man  of  genius, 
whose  conclusions  did  not  correspond  better  with  his  premises, 
and  not  worse,  than  those  of  other  men  ; whose  genius,  when 
it  once  came  to  be  understood,  did  not  manifest  itself  in  a 
deeper,  fuller,  truer  view  of  all  things  human  and  divine,  than 
6 


82 


NOVALIS. 


the  clearest  of  your  so  laudable  ‘ practical  men  ’ had  claim  to. 
Such,  we  say,  has  been  our  uniform  experience  ; so  uniform, 
that  we  now  hardly  ever  expect  to  see  it  contradicted.  True 
it  is,  the  old  Pythagorean  argument  of  ‘ the  master  said  it,’ 
has  long  since  ceased  to  be  available  : in  these  days,  no  man, 
except  the  Pope  of  Rome,  is  altogether  exempt  from  error  of 
judgment  ; doubtless  a man  of  genius  may  chance  to  adopt 
false  opinions  ; nay  rather,  like  all  other  sons  of  Adam,  except 
that  same  enviable  Pope,  must  occasionally  adopt  such.  Never- 
theless, we  reckon  it  a good  maxim,  That  no  error  is  fully  con- 
futed till  we  have  seen  not  only  that  it  is  an  error,  but  how  it 
became  one  ; till  finding  that  it  clashes  with  the  principles 
of  truth  established  in  our  own  mind,  we  find  also  in  what 
•way  it  had  seemed  to  harmonise  with  the  principles  of  truth 
established  in  that  other  mind,  perhaps  so  unspeakably  su- 
perior to  ours.  Treated  by  this  method,  it  still  appears  to 
us,  according  to  the  the  old  saying,  that  the  errors  of  a wise 
man  are  literally  more  instructive  than  the  truths  of  a fool. 
For  the  wise  man  travels  in  lofty,  far-seeing  regions ; the  fool, 
in  low-lying,  high-fenced  lanes  : retracing  the  footsteps  of  the 
former,  to  discover  where  he  deviated,  whole  provinces  of  the 
Universe  are  laid  open  so  us  ; in  the  path  of  the  latter,  grant- 
ing even  that  he  have  not  deviated  at  all,  little  is  laid  open  to 
us  but  two  wheel-ruts  and  two  hedges. 

On  these  grounds  we  reckon  it  more  profitable,  in  almost 
any  case,  to  have  to  do  with  men  of  depth,  than  with  men  of 
shallowness  : and,  were  it  possible,  we  would  read  no  book 
that  was  not  written  by  one  of  the  former  class  ; all  members 
of  which  we  would  love  and  venerate,  how  perverse  soever 
they  might  seem  to  us  at  first  ; nay  though,  after  the  fullest 
investigation,  we  still  found  many  things  to  pardon  in  them. 
Such  of  our  readers  as  at  all  participate  in  this  predilection 
will  not  blame  us  for  bringing  them  acquainted  with  Novalis, 
a man  of  the  most  indisputable  talent,  poetical  and  philosophi- 
cal ; whose  opinions,  extraordinary,  nay  altogether  wild  and 
baseless  as  they  often  appear,  are  not  without  a strict  cohe- 
rence in  his  own  mind,  and  will  lead  any  other  mind,  that 
examines  them  faithfully,  into  endless  considerations  ; opening 


NOVAIIS. 


83 


tlie  strangest  inquiries,  new  truths,  or  new  possibilities  of 
truth,  a whole  unexpected  world  of  thought,  where,  whether 
for  belief  or  denial,  the  deepest  questions  await  us. 

In  what  is  called  reviewing  such  a book  as  this,  we  are 
aware  that  to  the  judicious  craftsman  two  methods  present 
themselves.  The  tirst  and  most  convenient  is,  for  the  Re- 
viewer  to  perch  himself  resolutely,  as  it  were,  on  the  shoulder 
of  his  Author,  and  therefrom  to  show  as  if  he  commanded  him 
and  looked  down  on  him  by  natural  superiority  of  stature. 
Whatsoever  the  great  man  says  or  does,  the  little  man  shall 
treat  with  an  air  of  knowingness  and  light  condescending 
mockery ; professing,  with  much  covert  sarcasm,  that  this  and 
that  other  is  beyond  his  comprehension,  and  cunningly  asking 
his  readers  if  they  comprehend  it ! Herein  it  will  help  him 
mightily,  if,  besides  description,  he  can  quote  a few  passages, 
which,  in  their  detached  state,  and  taken  most  probably  in 
quite  a wrong  acceptation  of  the  words,  shall  sound  strange, 
and,  to  certain  hearers,  even  absurd  ; all  which  will  be  easy 
enough,  if  he  have  any  handiness  in  the  business,  and  address 
the  right  audience  ; truths,  as  this  world  goes,  being  true  only 
for  those  that  have  some  understanding  of  them  ; as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  Yorkshire  Wolds,  and  Thames  Coal-ships,  Chris- 
tian men  enough  might  be  found,  at  this  da}r,  who,  if  you  read 
them  the  Thirty-ninth  of  the  Principia , would  ‘ grin  intelli- 
gence from  ear  to  ear.’  On  the  other  hand,  should  our  Re- 
viewer meet  with  any  passage,  the  wisdom  of  which,  deep, 
plain  and  palpable  to  the  simplest,  might  cause  misgivings  in 
the  reader,  as  if  here  were  a man  of  half-unknown  endowment, 
whom  perhaps  it  were  better  to  wonder  at  than  laugh  at,  our 
Reviewer  either  suppresses  it,  or  citing  it  with  an  air  of  meri- 
torious candour,  calls  upon  his  Author,  in  a tone  of  command 
and  encouragement,  to  lay  aside  his  transcendental  crotchets, 
and  write  always  thus,  and  he  will  admire  him.  Whereby  the 
reader  again  feels  comforted  ; proceeds  swimmingly  to  the 
conclusion  of  the  ‘ Article,’ and  shuts  it  with  a victorious  feel- 
ing, not  only  that  he  and  the  Reviewer  understand  this  man, 
but  also  that,  with  some  rays  of  fancy  and  the  like,  the  man  is 
little  better  than  a living  mass  of  darkness. 


84 


NO  VALIS. 


In  this  way  does  the  small  Reviewer  triumph  over  great 
Authors  ; but  it  is  the  triumph  of  a fool.  In  this  way  too 
does  he  recommend  himself  to  certain  readers,  but  it  is  the 
recommendation  of  a parasite,  and  of  no  true  servant.  The 
servant  would  have  spoken  truth,  iu  this  case ; truth,  that  it 
might  have  profited,  however  harsh  : the  parasite  glozes  his 
master  with  sweet  speeches,  that  he  may  filch  applause,  and 
certain  ‘ guineas  per  sheet,’  from  him  ; substituting  for  igno- 
rance which  was  harmless,  error  which  is  not  so.  And  yet  to 
the  vulgar  reader,  naturally  enough,  that  flattering  unction  is 
full  of  solacement.  In  fact,  to  a reader  of  this  sort  few  things 
can  be  more  alarming  than  to  find  that  his  own  little  Parish, 
Avhere  he  lived  so  snug  and  absolute,  is,  after  all,  not  the  whole 
Universe ; that  beyond  the  hill  which  screened  his  house  from 
the  west  wind,  and  grew  his  kitchen-vegetables  so  sweetly, 
there  are  other  hills  and  other  hamlets,  nay  mountains  and 
towered  cities  ; with  all  which,  if  he  would  continue  to  pass 
for  a geographer,  he  must  forthwith  make  himself  acquainted. 
Now  this  Reviewer,  often  his  fellow  Parishioner,  is  a safe  man  ; 
leads  him  pleasantly  to  the  hill-top  ; shows  him  that  indeed 
there  are,  or  seem  to  be,  other  expanses,  these  too  of  bound- 
less extent : but  with  only  cloud  mountains,  and  fala-morgana 
cities  ; the  true  character  of  that  region  being  Vacuity,  or  at 
best  a stony  desert  tenanted  by  Gryphons  and  Chimeras. 

Surely,  if  printing  is  not,  like  courtier  speech,  ‘ the  art  of 
concealing  thought,’  all  this  must  be  blamable  enough.  Is 
it  the  Reviewer’s  real  trade  to  be  a pander  of  laziness,  self- 
conceit  and  all  manner  of  contemptuous  stupidity  on  the  part 
of  his  reader  ; carefully  ministering  to  these  propensities  ; 
carefully  fencing  off  whatever  might  invade  that  fool’s-para- 
dise  with  news  of  disturbance  ? Is  he  the  priest  of  Litera- 
ture and  Philosophy,  to  interpret  their  mysteries  to  the 
common  man  ; as  a faithful  preacher,  teaching  him  to  under- 
stand what  is  adapted  for  his  understanding,  to  reverence 
what  is  adapted  for  higher  understandings  than  his  ? Or 
merely  the  lackey  of  Dulness,  striving  for  certain  wages  of 
pudding  or  praise,  by  the  month  or  quarter,  to  perpetuate 
the  reign  of  presumption  and  triviality  on  earth  ? If  the 


NO  VALIS. 


85 


latter,  will  lie  not  be  counselled  to  pause  for  an  instant,  and 
reflect  seriously,  whether  starvation  were  worse  or  were  bet- 
ter than  such  a dog’s-existence  ? 

Our  reader  perceives  that  we  are  for  adopting  the  second 
method  with  regard  to  Novalis  ; that  we  wish  less  to  insult 
over  this  highly-gifted  man,  than  to  gain  some  insight  into 
him  ; that  we  look  upon  his  mode  of  being  and  thinking  as 
very  singular,  but  not  therefore  necessarily  very  contempti- 
ble ; as  a matter,  in  fact,  worthy  of  examination,  and  difficult 
beyond  most  others  to  examine  wisely  and  with  profit.  Let 
no  man  expect  that,  in  this  case,  a Samson  is  to  be  led  forth, 
blinded  and  manacled,  to  make  him  sport.  Nay,  might  it 
not,  in  a spiritual  sense,  be  death,  as  surely  it  would  be 
damage,  to  the  small  man  himself  ? For  is  not  this  habit 
of  sneering  at  all  greatness,  of  forcibly  bringing  down  all 
greatness  to  his  own  height,  one  chief  cause  which  keeps 
that  height  so  very  inconsiderable  ? Come  of  it  what  may, 
we  have  no  refreshing  dew  for  the  small  man’s  vanity  in 
this  place  ; nay  rather,  as  charitable  brethren,  and  fellow- 
sufferers  from  that  same  evil,  we  would  gladly  lay  the  sickle 
to  that  reed-grove  of  self-conceit,  which  has  grown  round 
him,  and  reap  it  altogether  away,  that  so  the  true  figure  of 
the  world,  and  his  own  true  figure,  might  no  longer  be 
utterly  hidden  from  him.  Does  this  our  brother,  then,  refuse 
to  accompany  us,  without  such  allurements  ? He  must  even 
retain  our  best  wishes,  and  abide  by  his  own  hearth. 

Farther,  to  the  honest  few  wTho  still  go  along  with  us  on 
this  occasion,  we  are  bound  in  justice  to  say  that,  far  from 
looking  down  on  Novalis,  we  cannot  place  either  them  or 
ourselves  on  a level  with  him.  To  explain  so  strange  an 
individuality,  to  exhibit  a mind  of  this  depth  and  singularity 
before  the  minds  of  readers  so  foreign  to  him  in  every  sense, 
would  be  a vain  pretension  in  us.  With  the  best  will,  and 
after  repeated  trials,  we  have  gained  but  a feeble  notion  of 
Novalis  for  ourselves  : his  Volumes  come  before  us  with  every 
disadvantage  ; they  are  the  posthumous  works  of  a man  cut 
off  in  early  life,  while  his  opinions,  far  from  being  matured 
for  the  public  eye,  were  still  lying  crude  and  disjointed  be- 


86 


NO  VALIS. 


fore  Ills  own  ; for-  most  part  written  down  in  the  shape  of 
detached  aphorisms,  ‘none  of  them,’  as  he  says  himself, 

‘ untrue  or  unimportant  to  his  own  mind,’  but  naturally  re- 
quiring to  be  remodelled,  expanded,  compressed,  as  the  mat- 
ter cleared  up  more  and  more  into  logical  unity  ; at  best  but 
fragments  of  a great  scheme  which  he  did  not  live  to  realise. 
If  his  Editors,  Friedrich  Schlegel  and  Ludwig  Tieck,  declined 
commenting  on  these  Writings,  we  may  well  be  excused  for 
declining  to  do  so.  ‘ It  cannot  be  our  puipose  here,’  says 
Tieck,  ‘ to  recommend  the  following  Works,  or  to  judge 
‘ them  ; probable  as  it  must  be  that  any  judgment  delivered 
‘ at  this  stage  of  the  matter  would  be  a premature  and  unripe 
‘ one  : for  a spirit  of  such  originality  must  first  be  compre- 
‘ hended,  his  will  understood,  and  his  loving  intention  felt  and 
‘ replied  to  ; so  that  not  till  his  ideas  have  taken  root  in  other 
‘ minds,  and  brought  forth  new  ideas,  shall  we  see  rightly, 
‘ from  the  historical  sequence,  what  place  he  himself  occupied, 
‘ and  what  relation  to  his  country  he  truly  bore.’ 

Meanwhile,  Novaks  is  a figure  of  such  importance  in  Ger- 
man Literature,  that  no  student  of  it  can  pass  him  by  without 
attention.  If  we  must  not  attempt  interpreting  this  Work 
for  our  readers,  we  are  bound  at  least  to  point  out  its  exist- 
ence, and  according  to  our  best  knowledge,  direct  such  of 
them  as  take  an  interest  in  the  matter  how  to  investigate  it 
farther  for  their  own  benefit.  For  this  purpose,  it  may  be 
well  that  we  leave  our  Author  to  speak  chiefly  for  himself ; 
subjoining  only  such  expositions  as  cannot  be  dispensed  with 
for  even  verbal  intelligibility,  and  as  we  can  offer  on  our  own 
surety  with  some  degree  of  confidence.  By  way  of  basis  to 
the  whole  inquiry,  we  prefix  some  particulars  of  his  short  life  ; 
a part  of  our  task  which  Tieck’s  clear  and  graceful  Narrative, 
given  as  ‘Preface  to  the  Third  Edition,’  renders  easy  for  us. 

Friedrich  von  Hardenberg,  better  known  in  Literature  by 
the  pseudonym  ‘Novalis,’  was  born  on  the  2d  of  May,  1772, 
at  a country  residence  of  his  family  in  the  Grafschaft  of  Mans- 
feld,  in  Saxony.  His  father,  who  had  been  a soldier  in  youth, 
and  still  retained  a liking  for  that  profession,  was  at  this  time 


NO  VALTS. 


87 


Director  of  the  Saxon  Salt-works  ; an  office  of  some  consider- 
able trust  and  dignity.  Tieck  says,  ‘ lie  was  a vigorous,  un- 
‘ weariedly  active  man,  of  open,  resolute  character,  a true 
* German.  His  religious  feelings  made  him  a member  of  the 
‘ Herrnhut  Communion  ; yet  his  disposition  continued  gay, 
‘frank,  rugged  and  downright’  The  mother  also  was  dis- 
tinguished for  her  worth  ; ‘ a pattern  of  noble  piety  and 
Christian  mildness  ; ’ virtues  which  her  subsequent  life  gave 
opportunity  enough  for  exercising. 

On  the  young  Friedrich,  whom  we  may  continue  to  call 
Novalis,  the  qualities  of  his  parents  must  have  exercised  more 
than  usual  influence  ; for  he  was  brought  up  in  the  most  re- 
tired manner,  with  scarcely  any  associate  but  a sister  one 
year  older  than  himself,  and  the  two  brothers  that  were  next 
to  him  in  age.  A decidedly  religious  temper  seems  to  have 
infused  itself,  under  many  benignant  aspects,  over  the  whole 
family  : in  Novalis  especially  it  continued  the  ruling  principle 
through  life  ; manifested  no  less  in  his  scientific  speculations, 
than  in  his  feelings  and  conduct.  In  childhood  he  is  said  to 
have  been  remarkable  chiefly  for  the  entire,  enthusiastic 
affection  with  which  he  loved  his  mother ; and  for  a certain 
still,  secluded  disposition,  such  that  he  took  no  pleasure  in 
boyish  sports,  and  rather  shunned  the  society  of  other  chil- 
dren. Tieck  mentions  that,  till  his  ninth  year,  he  was  reck- 
oned nowise  quick  of  apprehension  ; but  at  this  period, 
strangely  enough,  some  violent  biliary  disease,  which  had 
almost  cut  him  off,  seemed  to  awaken  his  faculties  into 
proper  life,  and  he  became  the  readiest,  eagerest  learner  in 
all  branches  of  his  scholarship. 

In  his  eighteenth  year,  after  a few  months  of  preparation 
in  some  Gymnasium,  the  only  instruction  he  appears  to  have 
received  in  any  public  school,  he  repaired  to  Jena  ; and  con- 
tinued there  for  three  years  ; after  which  he  spent  one  season 
in  the  Leipzig  University,  and  another,  ‘ to  complete  his 
studies,’  in  that  of  Wittenberg.  It  seems  to  have  been  at 
Jena  that  he  became  acquainted  with  Friedrich  Schlegel  ; 
where  also,  wre  suppose,  he  studied  under  Fichte.  For  both 
of  these  men  he  conceived  a high  admiration  and  affection ; 


NOVALIS. 


and  both  of  them  had,  clearly  enough,  ‘ a great  and  abiding 
effect  on  his  whole  life.’  Fichte,  in  particular,  whose  lofty 
eloquence  and  clear  calm  enthusiasm  are  said  to  have  made 
him  irresistible  as  a teacher,1  had  quite  gained  Novalis  to  his 
doctrines  ; indeed  the  Wissenschaftslehre,  which,  as  we  are 
told  of  the  latter,  ‘ he  studied  with  unwearied  zeal,’  appeal’s 
to  have  been  the  groundwork  of  all  his  future  speculations 
in  Philosophy.  Besides  these  metaphysical  inquiries,  and 
the  usual  attainments  in  classical  literature,  Novalis  seems  ‘ to 
have  devoted  himself  with  ardour  to  the  Physical  Sciences, 
and  to  Mathematics  the  basis  of  them  : ’ at  an  early  period  of 
his  life,  he  had  read  much  of  History  ‘ with  extraordinary 
eagerness  ; ’ Poems  had  from  of  old  been  ‘ the  delight  of  his 
leisure  ; ’ particularly  that  species  denominated  Mahrchen 
(Traditionary  Tale),  which  continued  a favourite  with  him  to 
the  last ; as  almost  from  infancy  it  had  been  a chosen  amuse- 
ment of  his  to  read  these  compositions,  and  even  to  recite 
such,  of  his  own  invention.  One  remarkable  piece  of  that 
sort  he  has  himself  left  us,  inserted  in  Heinrich  von  Ofler- 
dingen,  his  chief  literary  performance. 

But  the  time  had  now  arrived,  when  study  must  become 
subordinate  to  action,  and  what  is  called  a profession  be  fixed 
upon.  At  the  breaking-out  of  the  French  War,  Novalis  had 
been  seized  with  a strong  and  altogether  unexpected  taste 
for  a military  life : however,  the  arguments  and  pressing 
entreaties  of  his  friends  ultimately  prevailed  over  this  whim  ; 
it  seems  to  have  been  settled  that  he  should  follow  his  father’s 
line  of  occupation  ; and  so,  about  the  end  of  1794,  he  re- 
moved to  Arnstadt  in  Thuringia,  ‘ to  train  himself  in  practical 
affairs  under  the  Kreis-Amtmann  Just.’  In  this  Kreis-Amt- 
vtanh  (Manager  of  a Circle)  he  found  a wise  and  kind  friend  ; 
applied  himself  honestly  to  business  ; and  in  all  his  serious 
calculations  may  have  looked  forward  to  a life  as  smooth  and 
commonplace  as  his  past  years  had  been.  One  incident,  and 

1 Sclielling,  we  Lave  been  informed,  gives  account  of  Fichte  and  his 
Wissenschaftslehre  to  the  following  effect:  ‘The  Philosophy  of  Fichte 
was  like  lightning  ; it  appeared  only  for  a moment,  but  it  kindled  a fire 
which  will  burn  forever.’ 


NO  VALrn 


S9 


that  too  of  no  unusual  sort,  appears,  in  Tieck’s  opinion,  to 
have  altered  the  whole  form  of  his  existence. 

‘ It  was  not  very  long  after  his  arrival  at  Arnstadt,  when  in 
a country  mansion  of  the  neighbourhood,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  Sophie  von  K . The  first  glance  of  this 

fair  and  wonderfully  lovely  form  was  decisive  for  his  whole 
life  ; nay,  we  may  say  that  the  feeling,  which  nowr  penetrated 
and  inspired  him,  was  the  substance  and  essence  of  his  whole 
life.  Sometimes,  in  the  look  and  figure  of  a child,  there  will 
stamp  itself  an  expression,  which,  as  it  is  too  angelic  and 
ethereally  beautiful,  we  are  forced  to  call  unearthly  or  ce- 
lestial ; and  commonly,  at  sight  of  such  purified  and  almost 
transparent  faces,  there  comes  on  us  a fear  that  they  are  too 
tender  and  delicately  fashioned  for  this  life  ; that  it  is  Death, 
or  Immortality,  which  looks  forth  so  expressively  on  us  from 
these  glancing  eyes  ; and  too  often  a quick  decay  converts 
our  mournful  foreboding  into  certainty.  Still  more  affecting 
are  such  figures,  when  their  first  period  is  happily  passed 
over,  and  they  come  before  us  blooming  on  the  eve  of  maid- 
liood.  All  persons  that  have  known  this  wondrous  loved  one 
of  our  Friend,  agree  in  testifying  that  no  description  can  ex- 
press in  what  grace  and  celestial  harmony  the  fair  being 
moved,  what  beauty  shone  in  her,  what  softness  and  majesty 
encircled  her.  Novalis  became  a poet  every  time  he  chanced 
to  speak  of  it.  She  had  concluded  her  thirteenth  year  when 
he  first  saw  her  : the  spring  and  summer  of  1795  were  the 
blooming  time  of  his  life  ; every  hour  that  he  could  spare 
from  business  he  spent  in  Gruningen  : and  in  the  fall  of  that 
same  year  he  obtained  the  wished-for  promise  from  Sophie’s 
parents.’ 

Unhappily,  however,  these  halcyon  days  were  of  too  short 
continuance.  Soon  after  this,  Sophie  fell  dangerously  sick 
‘ of  a fever,  attended  with  pains  in  the  side  ; ’ and  her  lover 
had  the  worst  consequences  to  fear.  By  and  by,  indeed,  the 
fever  left  her  ; but  not  the  pain,  ‘ which  by  its  violence  still 
spoiled  for  her  many  a fair  hour,’  and  gave  rise  to  various 
apprehensions,  though  the  Physician  asserted  that  it  was  of 
no  importance.  Partly  satisfied  with  this  favourable  prog- 
nostication, Novalis  had  gone  to  Weissenfels,  to  his  parents  ; 
and  was  full  of  business ; being  now  appointed  Auditor  in 


90 


NO  VALIS. 


the  department  of  which  his  father  was  Director  : through 
winter  the  news  from  Griiningen  were  of  a favourable  sort ; 
in  spring  he  visited  the  family  himself,  and  found  his  Sophie 
to  all  appearance  well.  But  suddenly,  in  summer,  his  hopes 
and  occupations  were  interrupted  by  tidings  that  ‘she  was  in 
Jena,  and  had  undergone  a surgical  operation.’  Her  disease 
was  an  abscess  in  the  liver  : it  had  been  her  wish  that  he 
should  not  hear  of  her  danger  till  the  worst  were  over.  The 
Jena  Surgeon  gave  hopes  of  recovery  though  a slow  one  ; but 
ere  long  the  operation  had  to  be  repeated,  and  now  it  was 
feared  that  his  patient’s  strength  was  too  far  exhausted.  The 
young  maiden  bore  all  this  with  inflexible  courage  and  the 
cheerfulest  resignation  : her  Mother  and  Sister,  Novalis,  with 
his  Parents  and  two  of  his  Brothers,  all  deeply  interested  in 
the  event,  did  their  utmost  to  comfort  her.  In  December,  by 
her  own  wish,  she  returned  home  ; but  it  was  evident  that  she 
grew  weaker  and  weaker.  Novalis  went  and  came  between 
Griiningen  and  Weissenfels,  where  also  he  found  a house  of 
mourning  ; for  Erasmus,  one  of  these  two  Brothers,  had  long 
been  sickly,  and  was  now  believed  to  be  dying. 

‘ The  17th  of  March,’  says  Tieck,  ‘ was  the  fifteenth  birth- 
day of  his  Sophie  ; and  on  the  19th,  about  noon  she  de- 
parted. No  one  durst  tell  Novalis  these  tidings  ; at  last  his 
Brother  Carl  undertook  it.  The  poor  youth  shut  himself  up, 
and  after  three  days  and  three  nights  of  weeping,  set  out  for 
Arnstadt,  that  there,  with  his  true  friend,  he  might  be  near 
the  spot,  which  now  hid  the  remains  of  what  was  dearest  to 
him.  On  the  14th  of  April,  his  Brother  Erasmus  also  left 
this  world.  Novalis  wrote  to  inform  his  Brother  Carl  of  the 
event,  who  had  been  obliged  to  make  a journey  into  Lower 
Saxony  : “ Be  of  good  courage,”  said  he,  “ Erasmus  has  pre- 
vailed ; the  flowers  of  our  fair  garland  are  dropping  off  Here, 
one  by  one,  that  they  may  be  united  Yonder,  lovelier  and 
forever.”  ’ 

Among  the  papers  published  in  these  Volumes  are  three 
letters  wnitten  about  this  time,  which  mournfully  indicate  the 
author’s  mood.  ‘It  has  grown  Evening  around  me,’  says  he, 
‘ while  I was  looking  into  the  red  of  Morning.  My  grief  is 


NO  VALIS. 


91 


‘ boundless  as  my  love.  For  three  years  she  has  been  my 
‘ hourly  thought.  She  alone  bound  me  to  life,  to  the  country, 
‘ to  my  occupations.  AYitli  her  I am  parted  from  all ; for  now 
‘I  scarcely  have  myself  any  more.  But  it  has  grown  Evening  ; 
‘ and  I feel  as  if  I had  to  travel  early  ; and  so  I would  fain  be 
* at  rest,  and  see  nothing  but  kind  faces  about  pie  ; — all  in  her 
‘ spirit  would  I live,  be  soft  and  mild-hearted  as  she  was.’  And 
again,  some  weeks  later:  £I  live  over  the  old,  bygone  life 

‘here,  in  still  meditation.  Yesterday' I was  twenty -five  years 
‘ old.  I was  in  Gruningen,  and  stood  beside  her  grave.  It  is 
‘a  friendly  spot;  enclosed  with  simple  white  railing;  lies 
‘ apart  and  high.  There  is  still  room  in  it.  The  village,  with 
‘ its  blooming  gardens,  leans  up  round  the  hill  ; and  at  this 
‘ point  and  that,  the  eye  loses  itself  in  blue  distances.  I know 
‘ you  would  have  liked  to  stand  by  me,  and  stick  the  flowers, 
‘ my  birthday  gifts,  one  by  one  into  her  hillock.  This  time 
‘ two  years,  she  made  me  a gay  present,  with  a flag  and  na- 
‘ tional  cockade  on  it.  To-day  her  parents  gave  me  the  little 
‘ things  which  she,  still  joyfully,  had  received  on  her  last 
‘ birthday.  Friend, — it  continues  Evening,  and  will  soon  be 
‘ Night.  If  you  go  away,  think  of  me  kindly,  and  visit,  when 
‘ you  return,  the  still  house,  where  your  Friend  rests  forever, 
‘ with  the  ashes  of  his  beloved.  Fare  you  well ! ’ — Neverthe- 
less, a singular  composure  came  over  him  ; from  the  very 
depths  of  his  grief  arose  a peace  and  pure  joy,  such  as  till 
then  he  had  never  known. 


‘In  this  season,’  observes  Tieck,  ‘Novalis  lived  only  to  his 
sorrow  : it  was  natural  for  him  to  regard  the  visible  and  the 
invisible  world  as  one  ; and  to  distinguish  Life  and  Death 
only  by  his  longing  for  the  latter.  At  the  same  time  too,  Life 
became  for  him  a glorified  Life  ; and  his  whole  being  melted 
away  as  into  a bright,  conscious  vision  of  a higher  Existence. 
From  the  sacredness  of  Sorrow,  from  heart-felt  love  and  the 
pious  wish  for  death,  his  temper  and  all  his  conceptions  are 
to  be  explained  : and  it  seems  possible  that  this  time,  with  its 
deep  griefs,  planted  in  him.  the  germ  of  death,  if  it  was  not, 
in  any  case,  his  appointed  lot  to  be  so  soon  snatched  away 
from  us. 


92 


NO  VALIS. 


‘ He  remained  many  weeks  in  Thuringia  ; and  came  back 
comforted  and  truly  purified,  to  his  engagements  ; which  he 
pursued  more  zealously  than  ever,  though  he  now  regarded 
himself  as  a stranger  on  the  earth.  In  this  period,  some 
earlier,  many  later,  especially  in  the  Autumn  of  this  year,  oc- 
cur' most  of  those  compositions,  which,  in  the  way  of  extract 
and  selection,  we  have  here  given  to  the  Public,  under  the 
title  of  Fragments  ; so  likewise  the  Hymns  to  the  Night.’ 

Such  is  our  Biographer’s  account  of  this  matter,  and  of 
the  weighty  inference  it  has  led  him  to.  We  have  detailed  it 
the  more  minutely,  and  almost  in  the  very  words  of  the  text, 
the  better  to  put  our  readers  in  a condition  for  judging  on 
what  grounds  Tieck  rests  his  opinion,  That  herein  lies  the 
key  to  the  whole  spiritual  history  of  Novalis,  that  ‘the  feeling 
‘ which  now  penetrated  and  inspired  him,  may  be  said  to  have 
‘ been  the  substance  of  his  Life.’  It  would  ill  become  us  to 
contradict  one  so  well  qualified  to  judge  of  all  subjects,  and 
who  enjoyed  such  peculiar  opportunities  for  forming  a right 
judgment  of  this:  meanwhile  we  may  say  that,  to  our  own 
minds,  after  all  consideration,  the  certainty  of  this  hypothesis 
will  nowise  become  clear.  Or  rather,  perhaps,  it  is  to  the  ex- 
pression, to  the  too  determinate  and  exclusive  language  in 
which  the  hypothesis  is  worded,  that  we  should  object ; for 
so  plain  does  the  truth  of  the  case  seem  to  us,  we  cannot  but 
believe  that  Tieck  himself  would  consent  to  modify  his  state- 
ment. That  the  whole  philosophical  and  moral  existence  of 
such  a man  as  Novalis  should  have  been  shaped  aud  deter- 
mined by  the  death  of  a young  girl,  almost  a child,  specially 
distinguished,  so  far  as  is  shown,  by  nothing  save  her  beauty, 
which  at  any  rate  must  have  been  very  short-lived, — will 
doubtless  seem  to  every  one  a singular  concatenation.  We 
cannot  but  think  that  some  result  precisely  similar  in  moral 
effect  might  have  been  attained  by  many  different  means  ; 
nay  that  by  one  means  or  another,  it  would  not  have  failed  to 
be  attained.  For  spirits  like  Novalis,  earthly  fortune  is  in  no 
instance  so  sweet  and  smooth,  that  it  does  not  by  and  by 
teach  the  great  doctrine  of  Entsagen,  of  1 Renunciation,’  by 
which  alone,  as  a wise  man  well  known  to  Herr  Tieck  has  ob- 


NOVALIS. 


93 


served,  ‘ can  the  real  entrance  on  Life  be  properly  said  to 
begin.’  Experience,  the  grand  Schoolmaster,  seems  to  have 
taught  Novalis  this  doctrine  very  early,  by  the  wreck  of  his 
first  passionate  wish  ; and  herein  lies  the  real  influence  of 
Sophie  von  K.  on  his  character  ; an  influence  which,  as  Hve 
imagine,  many  other  things  might  and  would  have  equally 
exerted  : for  it  is  less  the  severity  of  the  Teacher  than  the 
aptness  of  the  Pupil  that  secures  the  lesson  ; nor  do  the  puri- 
fying effects  of  frustrated  Hope,  and  Affection  which  in  this 
world  will  ever  be  homeless,  depend  on  the  worth  or  loveli- 
ness of  its  objects,  but  on  that  of  the  heart  which  cherished 
it,  and  can  draw  mild  wisdom  from  so  stern  a disappoint- 
ment. We  do  not  say  that  Novalis  continued  the  same  as  if 
this  young  maiden  had  not  been  ; causes  and  effects  connect- 
ing every  man  and  thing  with  every  other  extend  through  all 
Time  and  Space  ; but  surely  it  appears  unjust  to  represent 
him  as  so  altogether  pliant  in  the  hands  of  Accident  ; a mere 
pipe  for  Fortune  to  play  tunes  on  ; and  which  sounded  a 
mystic,  deep,  almost  unearthly  melody,  simply  because  a 
young  woman  was  beautiful  and  mortal. 

We  feel  the  more  justified  in  these  hard-hearted  and  so  un- 
romantic strictures,  on  reading  the  very  next  paragraph  of 
Tieck’s  Narrative.  Directly  on  the  back  of  this  occurrence, 
Novalis  goes  to  Freyberg  ; and  therein  1798,  it  may  be  there- 
fore somewhat  more  or  somewhat  less  than  a year  after  the 
death  of  his  first  love,  forms  an  acquaintance,  and  an  engage- 
ment to  marry,  with  a ‘Julie  von  Ch !’  Indeed,  ever 

afterwards,  to  the  end,  his  life  appears  to  have  been  more  than 
usually  cheerful  and  happy.  Tieck  knows  not  what  well  to 
say  of  this  betrothment,  which  in  the  eyes  of  most  Novel- 
readers  will  have  so  shocking  an  appearance  : he  admits  that 
‘ perhaps  to  any  but  his  intimate  friends  it  may  seem  singu- 
lar ; ’ asserts,  notwithstanding,  that  ‘ Sophie,  as  may  be  seen 
‘ also  in  his  writings,  continued  the  centre  of  his  thoughts  ; 
‘ nay,  as  one  departed,  she  stood  in,  higher  reverence  with  him 
‘ than  when  visible  and  near  ; ’ and  hurrying  on,  almost  as 
over  an  unsafe  subject,  declares  that  Novalis  felt  nevertheless 
‘ as  if  loveliness  of  mind  and  person  might,  in  some  measure. 


04 


NO  VAL1S. 


replace  his  loss  ; ’ and  so  leaves  us  to  our  own  reflections  on 
the  matter.  We  consider  it  as  throwing  light  on  the  above 
criticism  ; and  greatly  restricting  our  acceptance  of  Tieck’s 
theory.  Yet  perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  only  in  a Minerva-Press 
Novel,  or  to  the  more  tender  Imagination,  that  such  a pro- 
ceeding would  seem  very  blamable.  Constancy,  in  its  true 
sense,  may  be  called  the  root  of  all  excellence  ; especially  ex- 
cellent is  constancy  in  active  well-doing,  in  friendly  helpful- 
ness to  those  that  love  us,  and  to  those  that  hate  us : but  con- 
stancy in  passive  suffering,'  again,  in  spite  of  the  high  value 
put  upon  it  in  Circulating  Libraries,  is  a distinctly  inferior 
virtue,  rather  an  accident  than  a virtue,  and  at  all  events  is  of 
extreme  rarity  in  this  world.  To  Novalis,  his  Sophie  might 
still  be  as  a saintly  presence,  mournful  and  unspeakably  mild, 
to  be  worshipped  in  the  inmost  shrine  of  his  memory  : but 
worship  of  this  sort  is  not  man’s  sole  business ; neither  should 
we  censure  Novalis  that  he  dries  his  tears,  and  once  more  looks 
abroad  with  hope  on  the  earth,  which  is  still,  as  it  was  before, 
the  strangest  complex  of  mystery  and  light,  of  joy  as  well  as 
sorrows  ‘ Life  belongs  to  the  living  ; and  he  that  lives  must 
be  prepared  for  vicissitudes.’  The  questionable  circumstance 
with  Novalis  is  his  perhaps  too  great  rapidity  in  that  second 
courtship  ; a fault  or  misfortune  the  more  to  be  regretted,  as 
this  marriage  also  was  to  remain  a project,  and  only  the  antici- 
pation of  it  to  be  enjoyed  by  him. 

It  was  for  the  purpose  of  studying  mineralogy,  under  the 
famous  Werner,  that  Novalis  had  gone  to  Freyberg.  For  this 
science  he  had  great  fondness,  as  indeed  for  all  the  physical 
sciences  ; which,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  writings,  he  seems 
to  have  prosecuted  on  a great  and  original  principle,  veiy  dif- 
ferent both  from  that  of  our  idle  theorisers  and  generalisers, 
and  that  of  the  still  more  melancholy  class  who  merely  ‘ col- 
lect facts,’  and  for  the  torpor  or  total  extinction  of  the  think- 
ing faculty,  strive  to  make  up  by  the  more  assiduous  use  of  the 
blowpipe  and  goniometer.  The  commencement  of  a work,  en- 
titled the  Disciples  at  Sais,  intended,  as  Tieck  informs  us,  to 
be  a ‘Physical  Bomance,’  was  written  in  Freyberg,  at  this 
time  : but  it  lay  unfinished,  unprosecuted  ; and  now  comes 


NO  VALIS. 


95 


before  us  as  a very  mysterious  fragment,  disclosing  scientific 
depths,  which  we  have  not  light  to  see  into,  much  less  means 
to  fathom  and  accurately  measure.  The  various  hypothetic 
views  of  ‘ Nature,’  that  is,  of  the  visible  Creation,  which  are 
here  given  out  in  the  words  of  the  several  ‘Pupils,’  differ,  al- 
most all  of  them,  more  or  less,  from  any  that  we  have  ever 
elsewhere  met  with.  To  this  work  we  shall  have  occasion  to 
refer  more  particularly  in  the  sequel. 

The  acquaintance  which  Novalis  formed,  soon  after  this, 
with  the  elder  Schlegel  (August  Wilhelm),  and  still  more  that 
of  Tieck,  whom  also  he  first  met  in  Jena,  seems  to  have  oper- 
ated a considerable  diversion  in  his  line  of  study.  Tieck  and 
the  Schlegels,  with  some  less  active  associates,  among  whom 
are  now  mentioned  Wackenroder  and  Novalis,  were  at  this 
time  engaged  in  their  far-famed  campaign  against  Duncedom, 
or  what  called  itself  the  ‘ Old  School  ’ of  Literature  ; which 
old  and  rather  despicable  ‘ School  ’ they  had  already,  both  by 
regular  and  guerilla  warfare,  reduced  to  great  straits  ; as  ulti- 
mately, they  are  reckoned  to  have  succeeded  in  utterly  extir- 
pating it,  or  at  least  driving  it  back  to  the  very  confines  of  its 
native  Cimmeria.1  It  seems  to  have  been  in  connexion  with 
these  men,  that  Novalis  first  came  before  the  world  as  a writer : 
certain  of  his  Fragments  under  the  title  of  Bliithenstanb  (Pol- 
len of  Flowers),  his  Hymns  to  the  Night  and  various  poetical 
compositions  were  sent  forth  in  F.  Schlegel’s  Musen- Almanack 
and  other  periodicals  under  the  same  or  kindred  management. 
Novalis  himself  seems  to  profess  that  it  was  Tieck’s  influence 
which  chiefly  ‘ reawakened  Poetry  in  him.’  As  to  what  recep- 
tion these  pieces  met  with,  we  have  no  information  : however, 
Novalis  seems  to  have  been  ardent  and  diligent  in  his  new 
pursuit,  as  in  his  old  ones  ; and  no  less  happy  than  diligent. 

‘ In  the  summer  of  1800,’  says  Tieck,  ‘ I saw  him  for  the  first 
time  while  visiting  my  friend  Wilhelm  Schlegel ; and  our  ac- 
quaintance soon  became  the  most  confidential  friendship. 
They  were  bright  days  those,  which  we  passed  with  Schlegel, 
SchelMng  and  some  other  friends.  On  my  return  homewards, 
I visited  him  in  his  house,  and  made  acquaintance  with  his 
1 See  Appendix,  § Tieck , Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays. 


96 


NO  VA  LIS. 


family.  Here  lie  read  me  the  Disciples  at  Sais,  and  many  of 
his  Fragments.  He  escorted  me  as  far  as  Halle  ; and  we  en- 
joyed in  Giebichenstein,  in  the  Riechardts’  house,  some  other 
delightful  hours.  About  this  time,  the  first  thought  of  his 
Ofterdingen  had  occurred.  At  an  earlier  period,  certain  of  his 
Spiritual  Songs  had  been  composed:  they  were  to  form  paid  of 
a Christian  Hymn-book.  which  he  meant  to  accompany  with  a 
collection  of  Sermons.  For  the  rest,  he  was  very  diligent  in 
his  pi'ofessional  labours  ; whatever  he  did  was  done  with  the 
heart ; the  smallest  concern  was  not  insignificant  to  him.’ 


The  professional  labours  here  alluded  to,  seem  to  have 
left  much  leisure  on  his  hands  ; room  for  frequent  change  of 
place,  and  even  of  residence.  Not  long  afterwards,  we  find 
him  ‘bring  for  a long  while  in  a solitary  spot  of  the  Giildne 
Aue  in  Thuringia,  at  the  foot  of  the  Ivyffhauser  Mountain  ; ’ 
his  chief  society  two  military  men,  subsequently  Generals ; 
‘ in  which  solitude  great  part  of  his  Ofterdingen  was  written.’ 
The  first  volume  of  this  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  a sort  of 
Art-Romance,  intended,  as  he  himself  said,  to  be  an  ‘ Apothe- 
osis of  Poetry,’  was  erelong  published  ; under  what  circum- 
stances, or  with  what  result,  we  have,  as  before,  no  notice. 
Tieck  had  for  some  time  been  resident  in  Jena,  and  at  inter- 
vals saw  much  of  Novalis.  On  preparing  to  quit  that  abode, 
he  went  to  pay  him  a farewell  visit  at  Meissen f els  ; found  him 
‘ somewhat  paler,’  but  full  of  gladness  and  hope  ; ‘ quite  in- 
‘ spired  with  plans  of  his  future  happiness  ; his  house  was 
‘ already  fitted  up  ; in  a few  months  he  was  to  be  wedded  : 
‘ no  less  zealously  did  he  speak  of  the  speedy  conclusion  of 
‘ Ofterdingen,  and  other  books  ; his  life  seemed  expanding  in 
‘ the  richest  activity  and  love.’  This  was  in  1800  : four  years 
ago  Novalis  had  longed  and  looked  for  death,  and  it  was  not 
appointed  him  ; now  life  is  again  rich  and  far-extending  in 
his  eyes,  and  its  close  is  at  hand.  Tieck  parted  with  him, 
and  it  proved  to  be  forever. 

In  the  month  of  August,  Novahs,  preparing  for  his  journey 
to  Freyberg  on  so  joyful  an  occasion,  was  alarmed  with  an 
appearance  of  blood  proceeding  from  the  lungs.  The  Physi- 
cian treated  it  as  a slight  matter  ; nevertheless,  the  marriage 


NO  VALIS. 


97 


was  postponed.  He  went  to  Dresden  with  his  Parents,  for 
medical  advice  ; abode  there  for  some  time  in  no  improving 
state  ; on  learning  the  accidental  death  of  a young  brother 
at  home,  he  ruptured  a blood-vessel ; and  the  Doctor  then 
declared  his  malady  incurable.  This,  as  usual  in  such  mala- 
dies, was  nowise  the  patient’s  own  opinion  ; he  wished  to  try 
a warmer  climate,  but  was  thought  too  weak  for  the  journey. 
In  January  (1801)  he  returned  home,  visibly,  to  all  but  him- 
self, in  rapid  decline.  His  bride  had  already  been  to  see  him, 
in  Dresden.  We  may  give  the  rest  in  Tieck’s  words  : 

‘ The  nearer  he  approached  his  end,  the  more  confidently 
did  he  expect  a speedy  recovery  ; for  the  cough  diminished, 
and  excepting  languor,  he  had  no  feeling  of  sickness.  With 
the  hope  and  the  longing  for  life,  new  talent  and  fresh 
strength  seemed  also  to  awaken  in"  him  ; he  thought,  with 
renewed  love,  of  all  his  projected  labours  ; he  determined  on 
writing  Ofterclingen  over  again  from  the  very  beginning ; 
and  shortly  before  his  death,  he  said  on  one  occasion,  “ Never 
till  now  did  I know  what  Poetry  was  ; innumerable  Songs  and 
Poems,  and  of  quite  different  stamp  from  any  of  my  former 
ones,  have  arisen  in  me.”  From  the  nineteenth  of  March,  the 
death-day  of  his  Sophie,  he  became  visibly  weaker ; many  of 
his  friends  visited  him  ; and  he  felt  great  joy  when,  on  the 
twenty-first,  his  true  and  oldest  friend,  Friedrich  Schlegel, 
came  to  him  from  Jena.  With  him  he  conversed  at  great 
length  ; especially  upon  their  several  literary  operations. 
During  these  days  he  wras  very  lively  ; his  nights  too  were 
quiet  ; and  he  enjoyed  pretty  sound  sleep.  On  the  twenty- 
fifth,  about  six  in  the  morning,  he  made  his  brother  hand  him 
certain  books,  that  he  might  look  for  something ; then  he 
ordered  breakfast,  and  talked  cheerfully  till  eight ; towards 
nine  he  bade  his  brother  play  a little  to  him  on  the  harpsi- 
chord, and  in  the  course  of  the  music  fell  asleep.  Friedrich 
Schlegel  soon  afterwards  came  into  the  room,  and  found  him 
quietly  sleeping  : this  sleep  lasted  till  near  twelve,  when  with- 
out the  smallest  motion  he  passed  away,  and,  unchanged  in 
death,  retained  his  common  friendly  look  as  if  he  yet  lived. 

‘ So  died,’  continues  the  affectionate  Biographer,  ‘ before 
he  had  completed  his  twenty-ninth  year,  this  our  Friend  ; in 
whom  his  extensive  acquirements,  his  philosophical  talent  and 
his  poetic  genius  must  alike  obtain  our  love  and  admiration. 

7 


98 


NO  VALIS. 


As  lie  liad  so  far  outrun  liis  time,  our  country  might  have  ex- 
pected extraordinary  things  from  such  gifts,  had  this  early 
death  not  overtaken  him  : as  it  is,  the  unfinished  Writings  he 
left  behind  him  have  already  had  a wide  influence  ; 'and  many 
of  his  great  thoughts  will  yet,  in  time  coming,  lend  their  in- 
spiration, and  noble  minds  and  deep  thinkers  will  be  en- 
lightened and  enkindled  by  the  sparks  of  his  genius. 

‘ Novaks  was  tall,  slender  and  of  noble  proportions.  He 
Wore  his  light-brown  hair  in  long  clustering  locks,  which  at  that 
time  was  less  unusual  than  it  would  be  now  ; his  hazel  eye 
was  clear  and  glancing  ; and  the  colour  of  his  face,  especially 
of  the  fine  brow,  almost  transparent.  Hand  and  foot  were 
somewhat  too  large,  and  without  fine  character.  His  look 
was  at  all  times  cheerful  and  kind.  For  those  who  distin- 
guish a man  only  in  so  far  as  he  puts  himself  forward,  or  by 
studious  breeding,  by  fashionable  bearing,  endeavours  to 
shine  or  to  be  singular,  Novalis  was  lost  in  the  crowd to  the 
more  practised  eye,  again,  he  presented  a figure  which  might 
be  called  beautiful.  In  outline  and  expression,  his  face  strik- 
ingly resembled  that  of  the  Evangelist  John,  as  we  see  him 
in  the  large  noble  Painting  by  Albrecht  Durer,  preserved  at 
Niirnberg  and  Miincken. 

‘ In  speaking,  he  was  lively  and  loud,  his  gestures  strong. 
I never  saw  him  tired  : though  we  had  talked  till  far  in  the 
night,  it  was  still  only  on  purpose  that  he  stopped,  for  the 
sake  of  rest,  and  even  then  he  used  to  read  before  sleeping. 
Tedium  he  never  felt,  even  in  oppressive  company,  among 
mediocre  men  ; for  he  was  sure  to  find  out  one  or  other,  who 
could  give  him  yet  some  newr  piece  of  knowledge,  such  as  he 
could  turn  to  use,  insignificant  as  it  might  seem.  His  kindli- 
ness, his  frank  bearing,  made  him  a universal  favourite  : his 
skill  in  the  art  of  social  intercourse  was  so  great,  that  smaller 
minds  did  not  perceive  how  high  he  stood  above  them. 
Though  hi  conversation  he  delighted  most  to  unfold  the  deeps 
of  the  soul,  and  spoke  as  inspired  of  the  regions  of  invisible 
worlds,  yet  was  he  mirthful  as  a child  ; would  jest  in  free 
artless  gaiety,  and  heartily  give-in  to  the  jestings  of  his  com- 
pany. Without  vanity,  without  learned  haughtiness,  far  from 
every  affectation  and  hypocrisy,  he  was  a genuine,  time  man, 
the  purest  and  loveliest  embodiment  of  a high  immortal 
spirit.’ 

So  much  for  the  outward  figure  and  history  of  Novalis. 
Respecting  his  inward  structure  mid  significance,  which  our 


NO  VAL1S. 


99 


readers  are  here  principally  interested  to  understand,  we 
have  already  acknowledged  that  we  had  no  complete  insight 
to  boast  of.  The  slightest  perusal  of  his  Writings  indicates 
to  us  a mind  of  wonderful  depth  and  originality ; but  at  the 
same  time,  of  a nature  or  habit  so  abstruse,  and  altogether 
different  from  anything  we  ourselves  have  notice  or  expe- 
rience of,  that  to  penetrate  fairly  into  its  ■ essential  character, 
much  more  to  picture  it  forth  in  visual  distinctness,  would  be 
an  extremely  difficult  task.  Nay  perhaps,  if  attempted  by 
the  means  familiar  to  us,  an  impossible  task  : for  Novalis  be- 
longs to  that  class  of  persons,  who  do  not  recognise  the  ‘ syl- 
logistic method  ’ as  the  chief  organ  for  investigating  truth,  or 
feel  themselves  bound  at  all  times  to  stop  short  where  its  light 
fails  them.  Many  of  his  opinions  he  would  despair  of  prov- 
ing in  the  most  patient  Court  of  Law  ; and  would  remain  well 
content  that  they  should  be  disbelieved  there.  He  much 
loved,  and  had  assiduously  studied,  Jacob  Bohme  and  other 
mystical  writers  ; and  was,  openly  enough,  in  good  part  a 
Mystic  himself.  Not  indeed  what  we  English,  in  common 
speech,  call  a Mystic  ; which  means  only  a man  whom  we  do  not 
understand,  and,  in  self-defence,  reckon  or  would  fain  reckon 
a Dunce.  Novalis  was  a Mystic,  or  had  an  affinity  with  Mys- 
ticism, in  the  primary  and  true  meaning  of  that  word,  exem- 
plified in  some  shape  among  our  own  Puritan  Divines,  and 
Avhich  at  this  day  carries  no  opprobrium  with  it  in  Germany, 
or,  except  among  certain  more  unimportant  classes,  in  any 
other  country.  Nay,  in  this  sense,  great  honours  are  recorded 
of  Mysticism  : Tasso,  as  may  be  seen  in  several  of  his  prose 
writings,  was  professedly  a Mystic  ; Dante  is  regarded  as  a 
chief  man  of  that  class. 

Nevertheless,  with  all  due  tolerance  or  reverence  for  No- 
valis’s  Mysticism,  the  question  still  returns  on  us  : How  shall 
we  understand  it,  and  in  any  measure  shadow  it  forth  ? How 
may  that  spiritual  condition,  which  by  its  own  account  is  like 
pure  Light,  colourless,  formless,  infinite,  be  represented  by 
mere  Logic-Painters,  mere  Engravers  we  might  say,  who, 
except  copper  and  burin,  producing  the  most  finite  black-on- 
” ffite,  have  no  means  of  representing  anything  ? Novalis 


100 


NO  VALIS. 


himself  lias  aline  or  two,  and  no  more,  expressly  on  Mysti 
cism  : ‘ What  is  Mysticism  ? ’ asks  he.  ‘ What  is  it  that  should 
‘ come  to  be  treated  mystically  ? Religion,  Love,  Nature, 
‘ Polity. — All  select  things  ( alles  Auserwahlte ) have  a reference 
c to  Mysticism.  If  all  men  were  but  one  pair  of  lovers,  the 
‘ difference  between  Mysticism  and  Non-Mysticism  were  at 
‘ an  end.’  In  which  little  sentence,  unhappily,  our  reader  ob- 
tains no  clearness  : feels  rather  as  if  he  were  looking  into 
darkness  visible.  We  must  entreat  him,  nevertheless,  to  keep 
up  his  spirits  in  this  business  ; and  above  all,  to  assist  us 
with  his  friendliest,  cheerfulest  endeavour : perhaps  some 
faint  far-off  view  of  that  same  mysterious  Mysticism  may  at 
length  rise  upon  us. 

To  ourselves  it  somewhat  illustrates  the  nature  of  Novalis’s 
opinions,  when  we  consider  the  then  and  present  state  of 
German  metaphysical  science  generally  ; and  the  fact,  stated 
above,  that  he  gained  his  first  notions  on  this  subject  from 
Fichte’s  Wissenschaftslehre.  It  is  true,  as  Tieck  remarks,  ‘ he 
sought  to  open  for  himself  a new  path  in  Philosophy  ; to 
unite  Philosophy  with  Religion  : ’ and  so  diverged  in  some 
degree  from  his  first  instructor  ; or,  as  it  more  probably 
seemed  to  himself,  prosecuted  Fichte’s  scientific  inquiry  into 
its  highest  practical  results.  At  all  events,  his  metaphysical 
creed,  so  far  as  we  can  gather  it  from  these  Writings,  appears 
everywhere  in  its  essential  lineaments  synonymous  with  what 
little  we  understand  of  Fichte’s,  and  might  indeed,  safely 
enough  for  our  present  purpose,  be  classed  under  the  head  of 
Ivantism,  or  German  metaphysics  generally. 

Now,  without  entering  into  the  intricacies  of  German  Phi- 
losophy, we  need  here  only  advert  to  the  character  of  Ideal- 
ism, on  which  it  is  everywhere  founded,  and  which  univer- 
sally pervades  it.  In  all  German  systems,  since  the  time  of 
Kant,  it  is  the  fundamental  principle  to  deny  the  existence  of 
Matter ; or  rather  we  should  say,  to  believe  it  in  a radically 
different  sense  from  that  in  which  the  Scotch  Philosopher 
strives  to  demonstrate  it,  and  the  English  Unphilosopher  be- 
lieves it  without  demonstration.  To  any  of  our  readers,  who 
has  dipped  never  so  slightly  into  metaphysical  reading,  this 


NO  VALIS. 


101 


Idealism  will  be  no  inconceivable  thing.  Indeed  it  is  singu- 
lar how  widely  diffused,  and  under  what  different  aspects,  we 
meet  with  it  among  the  most  dissimilar  classes  of  mankind. 
Our  Bishop  Berkeley  seems  to  have  adopted  it  from  religious 
inducements  : Father  Boscovich  was  led  to  a very  cognate 
result,  in  his  Theoria  Philosophies  Naturalis,  from  merely 
mathematical  considerations.  Of  the  ancient  Phyrro,  or  the 
modern  Hume,  we  do  not  speak  : but  in  the  opposite  end  of 
the  Earth,  as  Sir  AY.  Jones  informs  us,  a similar  theory,  of 
immemorial  age,  prevails  among  the  theologians  of  Hindo- 
stan.  Nay,  Professor  Stewart  has  declared  his  opinion,  that 
whoever  at  some  time  of  his  life  has  not  entertained  this 
theory,  may  reckon  that  he  has  yet  shown  no  talent  for  meta- 
physical research.  Neither  is  it  any  argument  against  tho 
Idealist  to  say  that,  since  he  denies  the  absolute  existence  of 
Matter,  he  ought  in  conscience  to  deny  its  relative  existence  ; 
and  plunge  over  precipices,  and  run  himself  through  with 
swords,  by  way  of  recreation,  since  these,  like  all  other  ma- 
terial things,  are  only  phantasms  and  spectra,  and  therefore 
of  no  consequence.  If  a man,  corporeally  taken,  is  but  a 
phantasm  and  spectrum  himself,  all  this  will  ultimately 
amount  to  much  the  same  as  it  did  before.  Yet  herein 
lies  Dr.  Reid’s  grand  triumph  over  the  Sceptics  ; which  is  as 
good  as  no  triumph  whatever.  For  as  to  the  argument  which 
he  and  his  followers  insist  on,  under  all  possible  variety  of 
figures,  it  amounts  only  to  this  very  plain  consideration,  that 
‘ men  naturally,  and  without  reasoning,  believe  in  the  exist- 
ence of  Matter  ; ’ and  seems,  philosophically  speaking,  not  to 
have  any  value ; nay,  the  introduction  of  it  into  Philosophy 
may  be  considered  as  an  act  of  suicide  on  the  part  of  that 
science,  the  life  and  business  of  which,  that  of  ‘ interpreting 
Appearances,’  is  hereby  at  an  end.  Curious  it  is,  moreover, 
to  observe  how  these  Commonsense  Philosophers,  men  who 
brag  chiefly  of  their  irrefragable  logic,  and  keep  watch  and 
ward,  as  if  this  were  their  special  trade,  against  ‘ Mysti- 
cism ’ and  ‘ Visionary  Theories,’  are  themselves  obliged  to  base 
their  whole  system  on  Mysticism,  and  a Theory  ; on  Faith, 
in  «hort,  and  that  of  a very  comprehensive  kind  ; the  Faith, 


102 


NO  VAL1S. 


namely,  either  that  man’s  Senses  are  themselves  Divine,  oi 
that  they  afford  not  only  an  honest,  but  a literal  representa- 
tion of  the  workings  of  some  Divinity.  So  true  is  it  that  for 
these  men  also,  all  knowledge  of  the  visible  rests  on  belief 
of  the  invisible,  and  derives  its  first  meaning  and  certainty 
therefrom  ! 

The  Idealist,  again,  boasts  that  his  Philosophy  is  Transcen- 
dental, that  is,  ‘ ascending  beyond  the  senses  ; ’ which,  he  as- 
serts, all  Philosophy,  properly  so  called,  by  its  nature  is  and 
must  be  : and  in  this  way  he  is  led  to  various  unexpected 
conclusions.  To  a Transcendentalist,  Matter  has  an  exist- 
ence, but  only  as  a Phenomenon  : were  we  not  there,  neither 
would  it  be  there  ; it  is  a mere  Delation,  or  rather  the  result 
of  a Relation  between  our  living  Souls  and  the  great  First 
Cause  ; and  depends  for  its  apparent  qualities  on  our  bodily 
and  mental  organs  ; having  itself  no  intrinsic  qualities  ; being, 
in  the  common  sense  of  that  word,  Nothing.  The  tree  is 
green  and  hard,  not  of  its  own  natural  virtue,  but  simply  be- 
cause my  eye  and  my  hand  are  fashioned  so  as  to  discern 
such  and  such  appearances  under  such  and  such  conditions. 
Nay,  as  an  Idealist  might  say,  even  on  the  most  popular 
grounds,  must  it  not  be  so?  Bring  a sentient  Being,  with 
eyes  a little  different,  with  fingers  ten  times  harder  than 
mine  ; and  to  him  that  Thing  which  I call  Tree  shall  be  yel- 
low and  soft,  as  truly  as  to  me  it  is  green  and  hard.  Form 
his  Nervous-structure  in  all  points  the  reverse  of  mine,  and 
this  same  Tree  shall  not  be  combustible  or  heat-producing, 
but  dissoluble  and  cold-producing,  not  high  and  convex,  but 
deep  and  concave  ; shall  simply  have  all  properties  exactly 
the  reverse  of  those  I attribute  to  it.  There  is,  in  fact,  says 
Fichte,  no  Tree  there,  but  only  a Manifestation  of  Power  from 
something  which  is  not  I.  The  same  is  true  of  material  Nature 
at  large,  of  the  whole  visible  Universe,  with  all  its  movements, 
figures,  accidents  and  qualities  ; all  are  Impressions  produced 
on  me  by  something  different  from  me.  This,  we  suppose, 
may  be  the  foundation  of  what  Fichte  means  by  his  far-famed 
Tch  and  Nicht-Ich  (I  and  Not-I)  ; words  which,  taking  lodg- 
ing (to  use  the  Hudibrastic  phrase)  in  certain  ‘heads  that 


NO  VALIS. 


103 


were  to  be  let  unfurnished/  occasioned  a hollow  echo,  as  of 
Laughter,  from  the  empty  Apartments  ; though  the  words  are 
in  themselves  quite  harmless,  and  may  represent  the  basis  of 
a metaph}Tsical  Philosophy  as  fitly  as  any  other  words.  But 
farther,  and  what  is  still  stranger  than  such  Idealism,  accord- 
ing to  these  Kantean  systems,  the  organs  of  the  Mind  too, 
what  is  called  the  Understanding,  are  of  no  less  arbitrary,  and, 
as  it  were,  accidental  character  than  those  of  the  Body.  Time 
and  Space  themselves  are  not  external  but  internal  entities  : 
they  have  no  outward  existence,  there  is  no  Time  and  no 
Space  out  of  the  mind  ; they  are  mere  forms  of  man’s  spiritual 
being,  laws  under  which  his  thinking  nature  is  constituted  to 
act.  This  seems  the  hardest  conclusion  of  all  ; but  it  is  an 
important  one  with  Kant ; and  is  not  given  forth  as  a dogma  ; 
but  carefully  deduced  in  his  Critik  cler  Reinen  Vernunft  with 
great  precision,  and  the  strictest  form  of  argument. 

The  reader  would  err  widely  who  supposed  that  this  Tran- 
scendental system  of  Metaphysics  was  a mere  intellectual 
card-castle,  or  logical  hocus-pocus,  contrived  from  sheer  idle- 
ness and  for  sheer  idleness,  being  without  any  bearing  on  the 
practical  interests  of  men.  On  the  contrary,  however  false, 
or  however  true,  it  is  the  most  serious  in  its  purport  of  all 
Philosophies  propounded  in  these  latter  centuries  ; has  been 
taught  chiefly  by  men  of  the  loftiest  and  most  earnest  char- 
acter ; and  does  bear,  with  a direct  and  highly  comprehen- 
sive influence,  on  the  most  vital  interests  of  men.  To  say 
nothing  of  the  views  it  opens  in  regard  to  the  course  and 
management  of  what  is  called  Natural  Science,  we  cannot 
but  perceive  that  its  effects,  for  such  as  adopt  it,  -on  Morals 
and  Religion,  must  in  these  days  be  of  almost  boundless  im- 
portance. To  take  only  that  last  and  seemingly  strangest 
doctrine,  for  example,  concerning  Time  and  Space,  we  shall 
find  that  to  the  Ivantist  it  yields,  almost  immediately,  a re- 
markable result  of  this  sort.  If  Time  and  Space  have  no 
absolute  existence,  no  existence  out  of  our  minds,  it  removes 
a stumbling-block  from  the  very  threshold  of  our  Theology. 
For  on  this  ground,  when  we  say  that  the  Deity  is  omnipres- 
ent and  eternal,  that  with  Him  it  is  a universal  Here  and 


104 


NO  'SALTS. 


Now,  we  say  nothing  wonderful  ; nothing  but  that  He  also 
created  Time  and  Space,  that  Time  and  Space  are  not  laws 
of.  His  being,  but  only  of  ours.  Nay  to  the  Transcendental- 
ist,  clearly  enough,  the  whole  question  of  the  origin  and 
existence  of  Nature  must  be  greatly  simplified  : the  old  hos- 
tility of  Matter  is  at  an  end,  for  Matter  is  itself  annihilated  ; 
and  the  black  Spectre,  Atheism,  ‘ with  all  its  sickly  dews,’ 
melts  into  nothingness  forever.  But  farther,  if  it  be,,  as 
Kant  maintains,  that  the  logical  mechanism  of  the  mind  is 
arbitrary,  so  to  speak,  and  might  have  been  made  different, 
it  will  follow,  that  all  inductive  conclusions,  all  conclusions  of 
the  Understanding,  have  only  a relative  truth,  are  true  only 
for  us,  and  if  some  other  thing  be  true.  Thus  far  Hume 
and  Kant  go  together,  in  this  branch  of  the  inquiry : but 
here  occurs  the  most  total,  diametrical  divergence  between 
them.  We  allude  to  the  recognition,  by  these  Transcenden- 
talists,  of  a higher  faculty  in  man  than  Understanding ; of 
Reason  ( Vernunft),  the  pure,  ultimate  light  of  our  nature  ; 
wherein,  as  they  assert,  lies  the  foundation  of  all  Poetry, 
Virtue,  Religion ; things  which  are  properly  beyond  the 
province  of  the  Understanding,  of  which  the  Understanding 
can  take  no  cognisance,  except  a false  one.  The  elder  Jacobi, 
who  indeed  is  no  Kantist,  says  once,  we  remember  : ‘ It  is 
the  instinct  of  Understanding  to  contradict  Reason.’  Ad- 
mitting this  last  distinction  and  subordination,  supposing  it 
scientifically  demonstrated,  what  numberless  and  weightiest 
consequences  would  follow  from  it  alone  ! These  we  must 
leave  the  considerate  reader  to  deduce  for  himself  ; observing 
only  farther,  that  the  Teologia  Mistica,  so  much  venerated  by 
Tasso  in  his  philosophical  writings  ; the  ‘Mysticism  ’ alluded 
to  by  Novalis  ; and  generally  all  true  Christian  Faith  and 
Devotion,- appear,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  more  or  less  included 
in  this  doctrine  of  the  Transcendentalists  ; under  their  sev- 
eral shapes,  the  essence  of  them  all  being  what  is  here  desig- 
nated by  the  name  Reason,  and  set  forth  as  the  true  sover- 
eign of  man’s  mind. 

How  deeply  these  and  the  like  principles  had  impressed 
themselves  on  Novalis,  we  see  more  and  more,  the  farther  we 


NO  YAL1S. 


105 


study  his  Writings.  Naturally  a deep,  religious,  contempla- 
tive spirit ; purified  also,  as  we  have  seen,  by  harsh  Affliction, 
and  familiar  in  the  ‘Sanctuary  of  Sorrow,’  he  comes  before 
us  as  the  most  ideal  of  all  Idealists.  For  him  the  material 
Creation  is  but  an  Appearance,  a typical  shadow  in  which  the 
Deity  manifests  himself  to  man.  Not  only  has  the  unseen 
world  a reality,  but  the  only  reality  : the  rest  being  not  meta- 
phorically, but  literally  and  in  scientific  strictness,  ‘ a show  ; 3 
in  the  words  of  the  Poet,  ‘ Sdhall  und  Bauch  umnebelnd  Him- 
mels  Gluth,  Sound  and  Smoke  overclouding  the  splendour  of 
Heaven.’  The  Invisible  World  is  near  us : or  rather  it  is  here, 
in  us  and  about  us  ; were  thmfleshly  coil  removed  from  our 
Soul,  the  glories  of  the  Unseen  were  even  now  around  us  ; as 
the  Ancients  fabled  of  the  Spheral  Music.  Thus,  not  in  word 
only,  but  in  truth  and  sober  belief,  he  feels  himself  encom- 
passed by  the  Godhead  ; feels  in  every  thought,  that  ‘ in  Him 
he  lives,  moves  and  has  his  being.’ 

On  his  Philosophic  and  Poetic  procedure,  all  this  has  its 
natural  influence.  The  aim  of  Novalis’s  whole  Philosophy,  we 
might  say,  is  to  preach  and  establish  the  Majesty  of  Reason, 
in  that  stricter  sense  ; to  conquer  for  it  all  provinces  of  human 
thought,  and  everywhere  reduce  its  vassal,  Understanding, 
into  fealty,  the  right  and  only  useful  relation  for  it.  Mighty 
tasks  in  this  sort  lay  before  himself ; of  which,  in  these  Writ- 
ings of  his,  we  trace  only  scattered  indications.  In  fact,  all 
that  he  has  left  is  in  the  shape  of  Fragment ; detached  expo- 
sitions and  combinations,  deep,  brief  glimpses,  but  such  seems 
to  be  their  general  tendency.  One  character  to  be  noted  in 
many  of  these,  often  too  obscure  speculations,  is  his  peculiar 
manner  of  viewing  Nature  : his  habit,  as  it  were,  of  consider- 
ing Nature  rather  in  the  concrete,  not  analytically  and  as  a 
divisible  Aggregate,  but  as  a self-subsistent  universally  con- 
nected Whole.  This  also  is  perhaps  partly  the  fruit  of  his 
Idealism.  ‘ He  had  formed  the  Plan,’  we  are  informed,  ‘ of  a 
‘peculiar  Encyclopedical  Work,  in  which  experiences  and 
‘ ideas  from  all  the  different  sciences  were  mutually  to  eluci- 
‘ date,  confirm  and  enforce  each  other.  ’ In  this  work  he  had 
even  made  some  progress.  Many  of  the  ‘Thoughts,’  and  short 


106 


NOVALIS. 


Aphoristic  observations,  here  published,  were  intended  for  it ; 
of  such,  apparently,  it  was,  for  the  most  part,  to  have  con- 
sisted. 

As  a Poet,  Novalis  is  no  less  Idealistic  than  as  a Philoso- 
pher. His  poems  are  breathings  of  a high  devout  soul,  feel- 
ing always  that  here  he  has  no  home,  but  looking,  as  in  clear 
vision,  to  a ‘ city  that  hath  foundations.’  He  loves  external 
Nature  with  a singular  depth ; nay,  we  might  say,  he  rever- 
ences her,  and  holds  unspeakable  communings  with  her  : for 
Nature  is  no  longer  dead,  hostile  Matter,  but  the  veil  and 
mysterious  Garment  of  the  Unseen  ; as  it  were,  the  Voice 
with  which  the  Deity  proclainfe  himself  to  man.  These  two 
qualities, — his  pure  religious  temper,  and  heartfelt  love,  of 
Nature, — bring  him  into  true  poetic  relation  both  with  the 
spiritual  and  the  material  World,  and  perhaps  constitute  his 
chief  worth  as  a Poet ; for  which  art  he  seems  to  have  orig- 
inally a genuine,  but  no  exclusive  or  even  very  decided  en- 
dowment. 

His  moral  persuasions,  as  evinced  in  his  Writings  and  Life, 
deiive  themselves  naturally  enough  from  the  same  source.  It 
is  the  morality  of  a man,  to  whom  the  Earth  and  all  its  glories 
are  in  truth  a vapour  and  a Dream,  and  the  Beauty  of  Good- 
ness the  only  real  possession.  Poetry,  Virtue,  Beligion,  which 
for  other  men  have  but,  as  it  were,  a traditionary  and  imag- 
ined existence,  are  for  him  the  everlasting  basis  of  the  Uni- 
verse ; and  all  earthly  acquirements,  all  with  which  Ambition, 
Hope,  Fear,  can  tempt  us  to  toil  and  sin,  are  in  very  deed 
but  a picture  of  the  brain,  some  reflex  shadowed  on  the  mir- 
ror of  the  Infinite,  but  hi  themselves  air  and  nothingness. 
Thus,  to  live  in  that  Light  of  Reason,  to  have,  even  while  here 
and  encircled  with  this  Vision  of  Existence,  our  abode  in  that 
Eternal  City,  is  the  highest  and  sole  duty  of  man.  These 
things  Novalis  figures  to  himself  under  various  images  : some- 
times he  seems  to  represent  the  Primeval  essence  of  Being  as 
Love ; at  other  times,  he  speaks  in  emblems,  of  which  it  would 
be  still  more  difficult  to  give  a just  account ; which,  therefore, 
at  present,  we  shall  not  farther  notice. 

For  now,  with  these  far-off  sketches  of  an  exposition,  the 


NOVALIS. 


107 


reader  must  bold  liimself  ready  to  look  into  Novalis,  for  a 
little,  with  his  own  eyes.  Whoever  has  honestly,  and  with 
attentive  outlook,  accompanied  us  along  these  wondrous  out- 
skirts  of  Idealism,  may  find  himself  as  able  to  interpret  No- 
vaks as  the  majority  of  German  readers  would  be  ; which,  we 
think,  is  fair  measure  on  our  part.  We  shall  not  attempt  any 
farther  commentary ; fearing  that  it  might  be  too  difficult 
and  too  unthankful  a business.  Our  first  extract  is  from  the 
Lehrlingfi  zu  Sais  (Pupils  at  Sais),  adverted  to  above.  That 
‘Physical  Romance,’  which,  for  the  rest,  contains  no  story  or 
indication  of  a story,  but  only  poetised  philosophical  speeches, 
and  the  strangest  shadowy  allegorical  allusions,  and  indeed  is 
only  carried  the  length  of  two  Chapters,  commences,  without 
note  of  preparation,  in  this  singular  wise  : 

‘I.  The  Pupil. — Men  travel  in  manifold  paths  : whoso  traces 
and  compares  these,  will  find  strange  Figures  come  to  light ; 
Figures  which-  seem  as  if  they  belonged  to  that  great  Cipker- 
writing  which  one  meets  with  everywhere,  on  wings  of  birds, 
shells  of  eggs,  in  clouds,  in  the  snow,  in  crystals,  in  forms  of 
rocks,  in  freezing  waters,  in  the  interior  and  exterior  of  moun- 
tains, of  plants,  animals,  men,  in  the  lights  of  the  sky,  in 
plates  of  glass  and  pitch  when  touched  and  struck  on,  in  the 
filings  round  the  magnet,  and  the  singular  conjunctures  of 
Chance.  In  such  Figures  one  anticipates  the  key  to  that 
wondrous  Writing,  the  grammar  of  it ; but  this  Anticipation 
will  not  fix  itself  into  shape,  and  appears  as  if,  after  all,  it 
would  not  become  such  a key  for  us.  An  Alcahest  seems 
poured  out  over  the  senses  of  men.  Only  for  a moment  will 
their  wishes,  their  thoughts  thicken  into  form.  Thus  do  their 
Anticipations  arise  ; but  after  short  whiles,  all  is  again  swim- 
ming vaguely  before  them,  even  as  it  did. 

‘ From  afar  I heard  say,  that  Unintelligibility  was  but  the 
result  of  Unintelligence  ; that  this  sought  what  itself  had,  and 
so  could  find  nowhere  else  ; also  that  we  did  not  understand 
Speech,  because  Speech  did  not,  would  not,  understand  itself  ; 
that  the  genuine  Sanscrit  spoke  for  the  sake  of  speaking,  be- 
cause speaking  was  its  pleasure  and  its  nature. 

‘ Not  long  thereafter,  said  one : No  explanation  is  required 
for  Holy  Writing.  Whoso  speaks  truly  is  full  of  eternal  life, 
and  wonderfully  related  to  genuine  mysteries  does  his  Writ- 


108 


NO  VAL1S. 


ing  appear  to  us,  for  it  is  a Concord  from  tlie  Symphony  of 
the  Universe. 

‘ Surely  this  voi.ce  meant  our  Teacher  ; for  it  is  he  that  can 
collect  the  indications  which  lie  scattered  on  all  sides.  A sin- 
gular light  kindles  in  his  looks,  when  at  length  the  high  Rune 
lies  before  us,  and  he  watches  in  our  eyes  whether  the  star 
has  yet  risen  upon  us,  which  is  to  make  the  Figure  visible  and 
intelligible.  Does  he  see  us  sad,  that  the  darkness  will  not 
withdraw  ? He  consoles  us,  and  promises  the  faithful  assidu- 
ous seer  better  fortune  in  time.  Often  has  he  told  us  how, 
when  he  was  a child,  the  impulse  to  employ  his  senses,  too 
busy  to  fill  them,  left  him  no  rest.  He  looked  at  the  stars, 
and  imitated  their  courses  and  positions  in  the  sand.  Into 
the  ocean  of  air  he  gazed  incessantly ; and  never  wearied  con- 
templating its  clearness,  its  movements,  its  clouds,  its  lights. 
He  gathered  stones,  flowers,  insects,  of  all  sorts,  and  spread 
them  out  in  manifold  wise,  in  rows  before  him.  To  men  and 
animals  he  paid  heed  ; on  the  shore  of  the  sea  he  sat,  collected 
muscles.  Over  his  own  heart  and  his  own  thoughts  he  watched 
attentively.  He  knew  not  whither  his  longing  was  carrying 
him.  As  lie  grew  up  he  wandered  far  and  wide  ; viewed  other 
lands,  other  seas,  new  atmospheres,  new  rocks,  unknown  plants, 
animals,  men  ; descended  into  caverns,  saw  how  in  courses 
and  varying  strata  the  edifice  of  the  Earth  was  completed,  and 
fashioned  clay  into  strange  figures  of  rocks.  By  and  by,  he 
came  to  find  everywhere  objects  already  known,  but  wonder- 
fully mingled,  united  ; and  thus  often  extraordinary  things 
came  to  shape  in  him.  He  soon  became  aware  of  combina- 
tions in  all,  of  conjunctures,  concurrences.  Erelong,  he  no 
more  saw  anything  alone. — In  great  variegated  images,  the 
perceptions  of  his  senses  crowded  round  him  ; he  heard,  saw, 
touched  and  thought  at  once.  He  rejoiced  to  biing  strangers 
together.  Now  the  stars  wTere  men,  now  men  were  stars,  the 
stones  animals,  the  clouds  plants  ; he  sported  with  powers 
and  appearances  ; he  knew  where  and  how  this  and  that  was 
to  be  found,  to  be  brought  into  action  ; and  so  himself  struck 
over  the  strings,  for  tones  and  touches  of  his  own. 

‘ What  has  passed  with  him  since  then  he  does  not  disclose 
to  us.  He  tells  us  that  we  ourselves,  led  on  by  him  and  our 
own  desire,  •nail  discover  what  has  passed  with  him.  Many  of 
us  have  withdrawn  from  him.  ' They  returned  to  their  par- 
ents, and  learned  trades.  Some  have  been  sent  out  by  him, 
we  know  not  whither ; he  selected  them.  Of  these,  some 
have . been  but  a short  time  there,  others  longer.  One  was 


NOV  ALTS. 


109 


still  a child  ; scarcely  was  lie  come,  when  our  Teacher  was  for 
passing  him  any  more  instruction.  This  Child  had  large  dark 
eyes  with  azure  ground,  his  skin  shone  like  lilies,  and  his 
locks  like  light  little  clouds  when  it  is  growing  evening.  His 
voice  pierced  through  all  our  hearts  ; willingly  would  we  have 
given  him  our  flowers,  stones,  pens,  ah  we  had.  He  smiled 
with  an  infinite  earnestness  ; and  we  had  a strange  delight 
beside  him.  One  day  he  will  come  again,  said  our  Teacher, 
and  then  our  lessons  end. — Along  with  him  he  sent  one,  for 
whom  we  had  often  been  sorry.  Always  sad  he  looked  ; he 
had  been  long  years  here  ; nothing  would  succeed  with  him  ; 
when  we  sought  crystals  or  flowers,  he  seldom  found.  He 
saw  dimly  at  a distance  ; to  lay  down  variegated  rows  skilfully 
he  had  no  power.  He  was  so  apt  to  'break  everything.  Yet 
none  had  such  eagerness,  such  pleasure  in  hearing  and  listen- 
ing. At  last,— it  was  before  that  Child  came  into  our  circle, 
— he  all  at  once  grew  cheerful  and  expert.  One  day  he  had 
gone  out  sad  ; he  did  not  return,  and  the  night  came  on.  We 
were  very  anxious  for  him  ; suddenly,  as  the  morning  dawned, 
we  heard  his  voice  in  a neighbouring  grove.  He  was  singing 
a high,  joyful  song  ; we  were  ah  surprised ; the  Teacher 
looked  to  the  East,  such  a look  as  I shah  never  see  in  him 
again.  The  singer  soon  came  forth  to  us,  and  brought,  with 
unspeakable  blessedness  on  his  face,  a simple-looking  little 
stone,  of  singular  shape.  The  Teacher  took  it  in  his  hand, 
and  kissed  him  long  ; then  looked  at  us  with  wet  eyes,  and 
laid  this  little  stone  on  an  empty  space,  which  lay  in  the  midst 
of  other  stones,  j ust  where,  like  radii,  many  rows  of  them  met 
together. 

‘ I shall  in  no  time  forget  that  moment.  We  felt  as  if  we 
had  had  in  our  souls  a clear  passing  glimpse  into  this  won- 
drous World.’ 

In  these  strange  Oriental  delineations  the  judicious  reader 
will  suspect  that  mor’e  may  be  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 
But  who  this  teacher  at  Sais  is,  whether  the  personified  Intel- 
lect of  Mankind  ; and  who  this  bright-faced  golden-locked 
Child  (Reason,  Religious  Faith?),  that  was  ‘ to  come  again,’ 
to  conclude  these  lessons  ; and  that  awkward  unwearied  Man 
(Understanding  ?),  that  ‘ was  so  apt  to  break  everything,’  we 
have  no  data  for  determining,  and  would  not  undertake  to 
conjecture  with  tiny  certainty.  We  subjoin  a passage  from 


110 


NO  VALIS. 


the  second  chapter,  or  section,  entitled  ‘Nature,’  which,  ii 
possible,  is  of  a still  more  surprising  character  than  the  first. 
After  speaking  at  some  length  on  the  primeval  views  Man 
seems  to  have  formed  with  regard  to  the  external  Universe,  or 
1 the  manifold  Objects  of  his  Senses  ; ’ and  how  in  those  times 
his  mind  had  a peculiar  unity,  and  only  by  Practice  divided 
itself  into  separate  faculties,  as  by  Practice  it  may  yet  farther 
do,  ‘ our  Pupil  ’ proceeds  to  describe  the  conditions  requisite 
in  an  inquirer  into  Nature,  observing,  in  conclusion,  with  re- 
gard to  this, — 

‘No  one,  of  a surety, . wanders  farther  from  the  mark,  than 
he  who  fancies  to  himself  that  he  already  understands  this 
marvellous  Kingdom,  and  can,  in  few  words,  fathom  its  con- 
stitution, and  everywhere  find  the  light  path.  To  no  one,  who 
has  broken  off,  and  made  himself  an  Island,  will  insight  rise 
of  itself,  nor  even  without  toilsome  effort.  Only  to  children, 
or  childlike  men,  wdio  know'  not  what  they  do,  can  this  hap- 
pen. Long,  unwearied  intercourse,  free  and  wise  Contem- 
plation, attention  to  faint  tokens  and  indications  ; an  inward 
poet-life,  practised  senses,  a simple  and  devout  spirit : these 
are  the  essential  requisites  of  a true  Friend  of  Nature  ; with- 
out these  no  one  can  attain  his  wish.  Not  wise  does  it  seem 
to  attempt  comprehending  and  understanding  a Human  World 
without  full  perfected  Humanity.  No  talent  must  sleep  ; and 
if  all  are  not  alike  active,  all  must  be  alert,  and  not  oppressed 
and  enervated.  As  we  see  a future  Painter  in  the  boy  who 
fills  every  wTall  with  sketches  and  variedly  adds  colour  to  fig- 
ure ; so  we  see  a future  Philosopher  in  him  who  restlessly 
traces  and  questions  all  natural  things,  pays  heed  to  all,  brings 
together  whatever  is  remarkable,  and  rejoices  when  he  has 
become  master  and  possessor  of  a new  phenomenon,  of  a new 
power  and  piece  of  knowledge. 

‘ Now  to  Some  it  appears  not  at  all  worth  while  to  follow 
out  the  endless  divisions  of  Nature  ; and  moreover  a dangerous 
undertaking,  without  fruit  and  issue.  As  we  can  never  reach, 
say  they,  the  absolutely  smallest  grain  of  material  bodies, 
never  find  their  simplest  compartments,  since  all  magnitude 
loses  itself,  forwards  and  backwards,  in  infinitude ; so  likewise 
is  it  with  the  species  of  bodies  and  powers  ; here  too  one 
comes  on  new  species,  new  combinations,  new  appearances, 
even  to  infinitude.  These 'seem  only  to  stop,  continue  they, 


NO  VALIS. 


Ill 


when  our  diligence  tires  ; and  so  it  is  spending  precious  time 
with  idle  contemplations  and  tedious  enumerations  ; and  this 
becomes  at  last  a true  delirium,  a real  vertigo  over  the  horrid 
Deep.  For  Nature  too  remains,  so  far  as  we.  have  vet  come, 
ever  a frightful  Machine  of  Death : everywhere  monstrous  rev- 
olution, inexplicable  vortices  of  movement ; a kingdom  of 
Devouring,  of  the  maddest  tyranny  ; a baleful  Immense  : the 
few  liglit-points  disclose  but  a so  much  the  more  appalling 
Night,  and  terrors  of  all  sorts  must  palsy  every  observer. 
Like  a saviour  does  Death  stand  by  the  hapless  race  of  man- 
kind ; for  without  Death,  the  maddest  were  the  happiest. 
And  precisely  this  striving  to  fathom  that  gigantic  Mechanism 
is  already  a draught  towards  the  Deep,  a commenciug  giddi- 
ness ; for  every  excitement  is  an  iu creasing  whirl,  which  soon 
gains  full  mastery  over  its  victim,  and  hurls  him  forward  with 
it  into  the  fearful  Night.  Here,  say  those  lamenters,  lies  the 
crafty  snare  for  Man’s  understanding,  which  Nature  every- 
where seeks  to  annihdate  as  her  greatest  foe.  Hail  to  that 
childlike  ignorance  and  innocence  of  men,  which  kept  them 
blind  to  the  horrible  perils  that  everywhere,  like  grim  thunder- 
clouds, lay  round  their  peaceful  dwelling,  and  each  moment 
were  ready  to  rush  down  on  them.  Only  inward  disunion 
among  the  powers  of  Nature  has  preserved  men  hitherto  ; 
nevertheless,  that  great  ejnoch  cannot  fail  to  arrive,  when  the 
whole  family  of  mankind,  by  a grand  universal  Resolve,  will 
snatch  themselves  from  this  sorrowful  condition,  from  this 
frightful  imprisonment  ; and  by  a voluntary  Abdication  of 
their  terrestrial  abode,  redeem  their  race  from  this  anguish, 
and  seek  refuge  in  a happier  world,  with  their  ancient  Father. 
Thus  might  they  end  worthily  ; and  prevent  a necessary,  vio- 
lent destruction  ; or  a still  more  horrible  degenerating  into 
Beasts,  by  gradual  dissolution  of  their  thinking  organs, 
through  Insanity.  Intercourse  with  the  powers  of  Nature, 
with  animals,  plants,  rocks,  storms  and  waves,  must  neces- 
sarily assimilate  men  to  these  objects  ; and  this  Assimilation, 
this  Metamorphosis,  and  dissolution  of  the  Divine  and  the 
Human,  into  ungovernable  Forces,  is  even  the  Spirit  of  Nature, 
that  frightfully  voracious  Power : and  is  not  all  that  we  see 
even  now  a prey  from  Heaven,  a great  Ruin  of  former  Glories, 
the  Remains  of  a terrific  Repast  ? 

‘ Be  it  so,  cry  a more  courageous  Class  ; let  our  species 
maintain  a stubborn,  well-planned  war  of  destruction  ' with 
this  same  Nature,  then.  By  slow  jwisons  must  we  endeavour 
to  subdue  her.  .The  Inquirer  into  Nature  is  a noble  hero, 


112 


NOV  ALLS. 


who  rushes  into  the  open  abyss  for  the  deliverance  of  his 
fellow-citizens.  Artists  have  already  played  her  many  a trick  : 
do  but  continue  in  this  course  ; get  hold  of  the  secret  threads, 
and  bring"  them  to  act  against  each  other.  Profit  by  these 
discords,  that  so  in  the  end  you  may  lead  her,  like  that  fire- 
breathing Bull,  according  to  your  pleasure.  To  you  she  must 
become  obedient.  Patience  and  Faith  beseem  the  children 
of  men.  Distant  Brothers  are  united  with  us  for  one  object ; 
the  wheel  of  the  Stars  must  become  the  cistern-wheel  of  our 
life,  and  then,  by  our  slaves,  we  can  build  us  a new  Fairyland. 
With  heartfelt  triumph  let  us  look  at  her  devastations,  her 
tumults ; she  is  selling  herself  to  us,  and  every  violence  she 
will  pay  by  a heavy  penalty.  In  the  inspiring  feeling  of  our 
Freedom,  let  us  live  and  die  ; here  gushes  forth  the  stream, 
which  will  one  day  overflow  and  subdue  her  ; in  it  let  us 
bathe,  and  refresh  ourselves  for  new  exploits.  Hither  the 
rage* of  the  Monster  does  not  reach  ; one  drop  of  Freedom  is 
sufficient  to  cripple  her  forever,  and  forever  set  limits  to  her 
havoc. 

‘ They  are  right,  say  Several ; here,  or  nowhere,  lies  The 
talisman.  By  the  well  of  Freedom  we  sit  and  look  ; it  is  the 
grand  magic  Mirror,  where  the  wrhole  Creation  images  itself, 
pure  and  clear  ; in  it  do  the  tender  Spirits  and  Forms  of  all 
Natures  bathe  ; all  chambers  we  here  behold  unlocked.  What 
need  have  we  toilsomely  to  wander  over  the  troublous  World 
of  visible  things  ? The  purer  World  lies  even  in  us,  in  this 
Well.  Here  discloses  itself  the  true  meaning  of  the  great, 
many-coloured,  complected  Scene  ; and  if  full  of  these  sights 
we  return  into  Nature,  all  is  well  known  to  us,  with  certainty 
we  distinguish  every  shape.  We  need  not  to  inquire  long  ; a 
light  Comparison,  a few  strokes  in  the  sand,  are  enough  to 
inform  us.  Thus,  for  us,  is  the  whole  a great  Writing,  to 
which  we  have  the  key  ; and  nothing  comes  to  us  unexpected, 
for  the  course  of  the  great  Horologe  is  known  to  us  before- 
hand. It  is  only  we  that  enjoy  Nature  with  full  senses,  be- 
cause she  does  not  frighten  us  from  our  senses  ; because  no 
fever-dreams  oppress  us,  and  serene  consciousness  makes  us 
calm  and  confiding. 

‘They  are  not  right,  says  an  earnest  Man  to  these  latter. 
Can  they  not  recognise  in  Nature  the  true  impress  of  their 
own  Selves?  It  is  even  they  that  consume  themselves,  in  wild 
hostility  to  Thought.  They  know  not  that  this  so-called 
Nature  of  theirs  is  a Sport  of  the  Mind,  a waste  Fantasy  of 
their  Dream.  Of  a surety,  it  is  for  them  a horrible  Monster, 


NO  VALTS. 


113 


a strange  grotesque  Shadow  of  their  own  Passions.  The 
waking  man  looks  without  fear  at  this  offspring  of  his  lawless 
Imagination  ; for  he  knows  that  they  are  but  vain  Spectres  of 
his  weakness.  He  feels  himself  lord  of  the  world  : his  Me 
hovers  victorious  over  the  Abyss  ; and  will  through  Eternities 
hover  aloft  above  that  endless  Vicissitude.  Harmony  is  what 
his  spirit  strives  to  promulgate,  to  extend.  He  -will  even  to 
infinitude  grow  more  and  more  harmonious  with  himself  and 
with  his  Creation  ; and  at  every  step  behold  the  all-efficiency 
of  a high  moral  Order  in  the  Universe,  and  what  is  purest  of 
his  Me  come  forth  into  brighter  and  blighter  clearness.  The 
significance  of  the  World  is  Reason  ; for  her  sake  is  the 
World  here  ; and  when  it  is  grown  to  be  the  arena  of  a child- 
like, expanding  Reason,  it  will  one  day  become  the  divine 
Image  of  her  Activity,  the  scene  of  a genuine  Church.  Till 
then  let  man  honour  Nature  as  the  Emblem  of  his  own  Spirit ; 
the  Emblem  ennobling  itself,  along  with  him,  to  unlimited 
degrees.  Let  him,  therefore,  who  would  arrive  at  knowledge 
of  Nature,  train  his  moral  sense,  let  him  act  and  conceive  in 
accordance  with  the  noble  Essence  of  his  Soul  ; and  as  if  of 
herself,  Nature  will  become  open  to  him.  Moral  Action  is 
that  great  and  onl}r  Experiment,  in  which  all  riddles  of  the 
most  manifold  appearances  explain  themselves.  Whoso  un- 
derstands it,  and  in  rigid  sequence  of  Thought  can  lay  it 
open,  is  forever  Master  of  Nature.’ 1 

‘The  Pupil,’  it  is  added,  ‘listens  with  alarm  to  these  con- 
flicting voices.’  If  such  was  the  case  in  half-supernatural 
Sais,  it  may  well  be  much  more  so  in  mere  sublunary 
London.  Here  again,  however,  in  regard  to  these  vaporous 
lucubrations,  we  can  only  imitate  Jean  Paul’s  Quintus  Fix- 
lein,  who,  it  is  said,  in  his  elaborate  Catalogue  of  German 
Errors  of  the  Press,  ‘ states  that  important  inferences  are  to 
‘be  drawn  from  it,  and  advises  the  reader  to  draw  them.’ 
Perhaps  these  wonderful  paragraphs,  which  look,  at  this 
distance,  so  like  chasms  filled  with  mere  sluggish  mist,  might 
prove  valleys,  with  a clear  stream  and  soft  pastures,  were  we 
near  at  hand.  For  one  thing,  either  Novalis,  with  Tieck  and 
Schlegel  at  his  back,  are  men  in  a state  of  derangement  ; or 
there  is  more  in  Heaven  and  Earth  than  has  been  dreamt  of 

1 Bd.  ii.  s.  43-57. 

8 


114 


NOVALIS. 


in  our  Philosophy.  We  may  add  that,  in  our  -view,  this  last 
Speaker,  the  1 earnest  Man,’  seems  evidently  to  be  Fichte ; 
the  first  two  Classes  look  like  some  sceptical  or  atheistic 
brood,  unacquainted  with  Bacon’s  Novum  Organum,  or  having, 
the  First  class  at  least,  almost  no  faith  in  it.  That  theory  of 
the  human  species  ending  by  a universal  simultaneous  act 
of  Suicide,  will,  to  the  more  simple  sort  of  readers,  be  new. 

As  farther  and  more  directly  illustrating  Novalis’s  scientific 
views,  wTe  may  here  subjoin  two  short  sketches,  taken  from 
another  department  of  this  Volume.  To  all  who  prosecute 
Philosophy,  and  take  interest  in  its  history  and  present  as- 
pects, they  will  not  be  without  interest.  The  obscure  parts 
of  them  are  not  perhaps  unintelligible,  but  only  obscure  ; 
which  unluckily  cannot,  at  all  times,  be  helped  in  such  cases ; 

‘ Common  Logic  is  the  Grammar  of  the  higher  Speech, 
that  is  of  Thought  ; it  examines  merely  the  relations  of  ideas 
to  one  another,  the  Mechanics  of  Thought,  the  pure  Physi- 
ology of  ideas.  Now  logical  ideas  stand  related  to  one  an- 
other, like  words  without  thoughts.  Logic  occupies  itself 
with  the  mere  dead  Body  of  the  Science  of  Thinking. — Meta- 
physics, again,  is  the  Dynamics  of  Thought ; treats  of  the 
primary  Powers  of  Thought  ; occupies  itself  with  the  mere 
Soul  of  the  Science  of  Thinking.  Metaphysical  ideas  stand 
related  to  one  another,  like  thoughts  without  words.  Men 
often  wondered  at  tlie  stubborn  Incompletibility  of  these  two 
Sciences  ; each  followed  its  own  business  by  itself  ; there  was 
a want  everywhere,  nothing  would  suit  rightly  with  either. 
From  the  very  first,  attempts  were  made  to  unite  them,  as 
everything  about  them  indicated  relationship  ; but  every  at- 
tempt failed  ; the  one  or  the  other  Science  still  suffered  in 
these  attempts,  and  lost  its  essential  character.  We  had  to 
abide  by  metaphysical  Logic,  and  logical  Metaphysic,  but 
neither  of  them  was  as  it  should  be.  With  Physiology  and 
Psychology  with  Mechanics  and  Chemistry,  it  fared  no  better.' 
In  the  latter  half  of  this  Century  there  arose,  with  us  Ger- 
mans, a more  violent  commotion  than  ever  ; the  hostile 
masses  towered  themselves  up  against  each  other  more  fiercely 
than  heretofore  ; the  fermentation  was  extreme  ; there  fob 
lowed  powerful  explosions.  And  now  some  assert  that  a real 
Compenetration  has  somewhere  or  other  taken  place  ; that 


NO  VAL1S. 


115 


the  germ  of  a union  lias  arisen,  which  will  grow  by  degrees, 
and  assimilate  all  to  one  indivisible  form  : that  this  principle 
of  Peace  is  pressing  out  irresistibly,  on  all  sides,  and  that 
erelong  there  will  be  but  one  Science  and  one  Spirit,  as  one 
Prophet  and  one  God.’ — 

‘The  rude,  discursive  Thinker  is  the  Scholastic  (Schoolman 
Logician).  The  true  Scholastic  is  a mystical  Subtlist ; out  of 
logical  Atoms  he  builds  his  Universe  ; he  annihilates. all  living 
Nature,  to  put  an  Artifice  of  Thoughts  ( Gedan/scnkunst stuck, 
literally  Conjurer’s-trick  of  Thoughts)  in  its  room.  His  aim 
is  an  infinite  Automaton.  Opposite  to  him  is  the  rude,  intui- 
tive Poet  : this  is  a mystical  Macrologist : he  hates  rules  and 
fixed  form  ; a wild,  violent  life  reigns  instead  of  it  in  Nature  ; 
all  is  animate,  no  law  ; wilfulness  and  wonder  everywhere. 
He  is  merely  dynamical.  Tiius  does  the  Philosophic  Spirit 
arise  at  first,  in  altogether  separate  masses.  In  the  second 
stage  of  culture  these  masses  begin  to  come  in  contact,  multi- 
fariously enough  ; and,  as  in  the  union  of  infinite  Extremes, 
the  Finite,  the  Limited  arises,  so  here  also  arise  “ Eclectic 
Philosophers  ” without  number ; the  time  of  misunderstand- 
ing begins.  The  most  limited  is,  in  this  stage,  the  most  im- 
portant, the  purest  Philosopher  of  the  second  stage.  This 
class  occupies  itself  wholly  with  the  actual,  present  world,  in 
the  strictest  sense.  The  Philosophers  of  the  first  class  look 
down  with  contempt  on  those  of  the  second  ; say,  they  are  a 
little  of  everything,  and  so  nothing  ; hold  their  views  as  the 
results  of  weakness,  as  Inconsequentism.  On  the  contrary, 
the  second  class,  in  their  turn,  pity  the  first ; lay  the  blame 
on  their  visionary  enthusiasm,  which  they  say  is  absurd,  even 
to  insanity.  If,  on  the  one  hand,  the  Scholastics  and  Alche- 
mists seem  to  be  utterly  at  variance,  and  the  Eclectics  on  the 
other  hand  quite  at  one,  yet,  strictly  examined,  it  is  altogether 
the  reverse.  The  former,  hi  essentials,  are  indirectly  of  one 
opinion  ; namely,  as  regards  the  non-dependence  and  infinite 
character  of  Meditation,  they  both  set  out  from  the  Absolute  : 
whilst  the  Eclectic  and  limited  sort  are  essentially  at'  vari- 
ance ; and  agree  only  in  what  is  deduced.  The  former  are 
infinite  but  uniform,  the  latter  bounded  but  multiform  ; the 
former  have  genius,  the  latter  talent  ; those  have  Ideas,  these 
have  knacks  ( Hcmdgriffe ) ; those  are  heads  without  hands, 
these  are  hands  without  heads.  The  third  stage  is- for  the 
' Artist,  who  can  be  at  once  implement  and  genius.  He  finds 
that  that  primitive  Separation'  in  the  absolute  Philosophical 
Activities’  (between  the  Scholastic,  and  the  “rude,  intuitive 


116 


I VO  VAL13. 


Poet”)  £ is  a deeper  lying  Separation  in  bis  own  Nature ; which 
Separation  indicates,  by  its  existence  as  such,  the  possibility 
of  being  adjusted,  of  being  joined  : he  finds  that,  heteroge- 
neous as  these  Activities  are,  there  is  yet  a faculty  in  him  of 
passing  from  the  one  to  the  other,  of  changing  his  polarity  at 
will.  He  discovers  in  them,  therefore,  necessary  members  of 
his  spirit  : he  observes  that  both  must  be  united  in  some 
common  Principle.  He  infers  that  Eclecticism  is  nothing  but 
the  imperfect  defective  employment  of  this  Principle.  It  be- 
comes  ’ 

— But  we  need  not  struggle  farther,  wringing  a significance 
out  of  these  mysterious  words : in  delineating  the  genuine 
Transcendentalist,  or  ‘ Philosopher  of  the  third  stage,’ prop- 
erly speaking  the  Philosopher,  Novaks  ascends  into  regions 
whither  few  readers  won*  i follow  him.  It  maybe  observed 
here,  that  British  Philosophy,  tracing  it  from  Dims  Seotus  to 
Dugald  Stewart,  has  now  gone  through  the  first  and  second 
of  these  ‘ stages/  the  Scholastic  and  the  Eclectic,  and  in  con- 
siderable honour.  With  our  amiable  Professor  Stewart,  than 
whom  no  man,  not  Cicero  himself,  was  ever  more  entirely 
Eclectic,  that  second  or  Eclectic  class  may  be  considered  as 
having  terminated  ; and  now  Philosophy  is  at  a stand  among 
us,  or  rather  there  is  now  no  Philosophy  visible  in  these 
Islands.  It  remains  to  be  seen,  whether  we  also  are  to  have 
our  ‘ third  stage  ; ’ and  how  that  new  and  highest  ‘ class  ’ will 
demean  itself  here.  The  French  Philosophers  seem  busy 
studying  Kant,  and  writing  of  him  : but  we  rather  imagine 
Novalis  would  pronounce  them  still  only  in  the  Eclectic  stage. 
He  says  afterwards,  that  ‘ all  Eclectics  are  essentially  and  at 
bottom  sceptics  ; the  more  comprehensive,  the  more  sceptical.  ’ 
These  two  passages  have  been  extracted  from  a large  series 
of  Fragments,  which,  under  the  three  divisions  of  Philosophi- 
cal, Critical,  Moral,  occupy  the  greatest  part  of  Volume  Second. 
They  are  fractions,  as  we  hinted  above,  of  that  grand  ‘ ency- 
clopedical work  ’ which  Novalis  had  planned.  Friedrich 
Schlegel  is  said  to  be  the  selector  of  those  published  here. 
They  come  before  us  without  note  or  comment ; worded  for  the 
most  part  in  very  unusual  phraseology  ; and  without  repeated 


NO  VALES. 


117 


and  most  patient  investigation,  seldom  yield  any  significance, 
or  rather  we  should  say,  often  yield  a false  one.  A few 
of  the  clearest  we  have  selected  for  insertion  : whether  the 
reader  will  think  them  ‘Pollen  of  Flowers,’  or  a baser  kind  of 
dust,  we  shall  not  predict.  We  give  them  in  a miscellaneous 
shape  ; overlooking  those  classifications  which,  even  in  the 
test,  are  not  and  could  not  be  very  rigidly  adhered  to. 


‘ Philosophy  .can  Fake  no  bread  ; but  she  can  procure  for 
us  Grocl,  Freedom,  Immortality.  Which  then  is  more  practi- 
cal, Philosophy  or  Economy  ? — 

‘ Philosophy  is  properly  Home-sickness  ; the  wish  to  be 
everywhere  at  home. — 

‘ We  are  near  awakening  when  we  dream  that  we  dream. — 
‘ The  true  philosophical  Act  is  annihilation  of  self  ( Selbsttod - 
tung)  ; this  is  the  real  beginning  of  all  Philosophy ; all  requi- 
sites for , being  a Disciple  of  Philosophy  point  hither.  This 
Act  alone  corresponds  to  all  the  conditions  and  characteristics 
of  transcendental  conduct. — 

‘ To  become  properly  acquainted  with  a truth,  we  must  first 
have  disbelieved  it,  and  disputed  against  it. — 

‘ Man  is  the  higher  Sense  of  our  Planet ; the  star  which 
connects  it  with  the  upper  world  ; the  eye  which  it  turns 
towards  Heaven.  — 

‘ Life  is  a disease  of  the  spirit  ; a working  incited  by  Pas- 
sion. Rest  is  peculiar  to  the  spirit. — 

‘ Our  life  is  no  Dream,  but  it  may  and  will  perhaps  become 
one.— 

‘ What  is  Nature  ? An  encyclopedical,  systematic  Index  or 
Plan  of  our  Spirit.  Why  will  we  content  us  with  the  mere 
Catalogue  of  our  Treasures  ? Let  us  contemplate  them  our- 
selves, and  in  all  ways  elaborate  and  use  them.  — 

‘ If  our  Bodily  Life  is  a burning,  our  Spiritual  Life  is  a 
being  burnt,  a Combustion  (or,  is  precisely  the  inverse  the 
case?)  ; Death,  therefore,  perhaps  a Change  of  Capacity. — 

‘ Sleep  is  for  the  inhabitants  of  Planets  only.  In.  another 
time,  Man  will  sleep  and  wake  continually  at  once.  The 
greater  part  of  our  Body,  of  our  Humanity  itself,  yet  sleeps  a 
deej)  sleep. — 

‘ There  is  but  one  Temple  in  the  World  ; and  that  is  the 
Body  of  Man.  Nothing  is  holier  than  this  high  form.  Bend- 
ing before  man  is  a reverence  done  to  this  Revelation  in  the 


118 


NO  VALIS. 


Flesh.  We  touch  Heaven,  when  we  lay  our  hand. on  a human 
body.  — 

‘ Man  is  a Sun  ; his  Senses  are  the  Planets. — 

‘ Man  has  ever  expressed  some  symbolical  Philosophy  of 
his  Being  in  his  Works  and  Conduct  ; he  announces  himself 
and  his  Gospel  of  Nature  ; he  is  the  Messiah  of  Nature. — 

‘ Plants  are  Children  of  the  Earth  ; we  are  Children  of  the 
iEther.  Our  Lungs  are  properly  our  Boot ; we  live,  when 
we  breathe  ; we  begin  our  life  with  breathing. — 

‘ Nature  is  an  iEolian  Harp,  a musical  instrument  whose 
tones  again  are  keys  to  higher  strings  in  us. — 

‘ Every  beloved  object  is  the  centre  of  a Paradise. — 

‘ The  first  Man  is  the  first  Spirit-seer  ; all  appears  to  him 
as  Spirit.  What  are  children  but  first  men  ? The  fresh  gaze 
of  the  Child  is  richer  in  significance  than  the  forecasting  of 
the  most  indubitable  Seer. — 

‘It  depends  only  on  the  weakness  of  our  organs  and  of  our 
self-excitement  ( Selbstber uhrung ),  that  we  do  not  see  our- 
selves in  a Fairy-world.  All  Fabulous  Tales  ( Mahvchen ) are 
merely  dreams  of  that  home-world,  which  is  everywhere  and 
nowhere.  The  higher  powers  in  us,  which  one  day  as  Genies, 
shall  fulfil  our  will,1  are,  for  the  present.  Muses,  which  refresh 
us  on  our  toilsome  course  with  sweet  remembrances. — 

‘ Man  consists  in  Truth.  If  he  exposes  Truth,  he  exposes 
himself.  If  he  betrays  Truth,  he  betrays  himself.  We  speak 
not  here  of  Lies,  but  of  acting  against  Conviction.— ■- 

‘A  character  is  a completely  fashioned  will  ( vollkommen 
gebilileter  Wille). — - 

‘ There  is,  properly  speaking,  no  Misfortune  in  the  world 
Happiness  and  Misfortune  stand  in  continual  balance.  Every 
Misfortune  is,  as  it  were,  the  obstruction  of  a stream,  which, 
after  overcoming  this  obstruction,  but  bursts  through  with  the 
greater  force. — 

‘ The  ideal  of  Morality  has  no  more  dangerous  rival  than 
the  ideal  of-  liighest  Strength,  of  most  powerful  life  ; which 
also  has  been  named  (very  falsely  as  it  was  there  meant)  the 

1 Novalis’s ideas,  on  what  has  been  called  the  ‘perfectibility  of  man,’ 
ground  themselves  on  his  peculiar  views  of  the  constitution  of  material 
and  spiritual  Nature,  and  are  of  the  most  original  and  extraordinary 
character.  With  our  utmost  effort,  we  should  despair  of  communicat- 
ing other  than  a quite  false,  notion  of  them.  He  asks,  for  instance,  with 
scientific  gravity : Whether  any  one,  that  recollects  the  first  kind  glance 
of  her  he  loved,  can  doubt  the  possibility  of  Magic  ? 


NO  VALIS. 


119 


ideal  of  poetic  greatness.  It  is  the  maximum  of  the  savage  ; 
and  has,  in  these  times,  gained,  precisely  among  the  greatest 
weaklings,  very  many  proselytes.  By  this  ideal,  man  becomes 
a Beast- Spirit,  a Mixture  ; whose  brutal  wit  has,  for  weakhngs, 
a brutal  power  of  attraction. — 

‘ The  spirit  of  Poesy  is  the  morning  light,  which  makes  the 
Statue  of  Memnon  sound. — 

‘ The  division  of  Philosopher  and  Poet  is  only  apparent,  and 
to  the  disadvantage  of  both.  It  is  a sign  of  disease,  and  of  a 
sickly  constitution. — 

‘ The  true  Poet  is  all-knowing  ; he  is  an  actual  world  in 
miniature. — - 

‘ Klopstock’s  works  appear,  for  the  most  part,  free  Transla- 
tions of  an  unknown  Poet,  by  a very  talented  but  unpoetical 
Philologist. — 

‘ Goethe  is  an  altogether  practical  Poet.  He  is  in  his  works 
what  the  Enghsh  are  in  their  wares  : highly  simple,  neat,  con- 
venient and  durable.  He  has  done  in  German  Literature 
what  Wedgwood  did  in  Enghsh  Manufacture.  He  has,  like 
the  English,  a natural  turn  for  Economy,  and  a noble  Taste 
acquired  by  Understanding.  Both  these  are  very  compatible, 
and  have  a near  affinity  in  the  chemical  sense.  * * — Wil- 

helm Meister’s  Apprenticeship  may  be  called  throughout  prosaic 
and  modern.  The  Romantic  sinks  to  ruin,  the  Poesy  of 
Nature,  the  Wonderful.  The  Book  treats  merely  of  common 
worldly  things : Nature  and  Mysticism  are  altogether  forgotten. 
It  is  a poetised  civic  and  household  History  ; the  Marvellous 
is  expressly  treated  therein  as  imagination  and  'enthusiasm. 
Artistic  Atheism  is  the  spirit  of  the  Book.  * * * It  is 

properly  a Candide,  directed  against  Poetry  : the  Book  is 
highly  unpoetical  in  respect  of  spirit,  poetical  as  the  dress  and 
body  of  it  is.  * * * The  introduction  of  Shakspeare  has 

almost  a tragic  effect.  The  hero  retards  the  triumph  of  the 
Gospel  of  Economy  ; and  economical  Nature  is  finally  the 
true  and  only  remaining  one. — 

‘ When  we  speak  of  the  aim  and  Art  observable  in  Shak- 
speare’s  works,  we  must  not  forget  that  Art  belongs  to  Nat- 
ure ; that  it  is,  so  to  speak,  self-viewing,  self-imitating,  self- 
fashioning  Nature.  The  Art  of  a well-developed  genius  is  far 
different  from  the  Artfulness  of  the  Understanding,  of  the 
merely  reasoning  mind.  Shakspeare  was  no  calculator,  no 
learned  thinker  ; he  was  a mighty,  many-gifted  soul,  whose 
feelings  aud  works,  like  products  of  Nature,  bear  the  stamp 
of  the  same  spirit ; and  in  which  the  last  aud  deepest  of  oh- 


120 


NOVA  LIS. 


servers  will  still  find  new  harmonies  with  the  infinite  structure 
of  the  Universe ; concurrences  with  later  ideas,  affinities 
with  the  higher  powers  and  senses  of  man.  They  are  em- 
blematic, have  many  meanings,  are  simple  and  inexhausti- 
ble, like  products  of  Nature  ; and  nothing  more  unsuitable 
could  be  said  of  them  than  that  they  are  works  of  Art,  in  that 
narrow  mechanical  acceptation  of  the  word.’ 

The  reader  understands  that  we  offer  these  specimens  not 
as  the  best  to  be  found  in  Novalis’s  Fragments,  but  simply  as 
the  most  intelligible.  Far  stranger  and  deeper  things  there 
are,  could  we  hope  to  make  them  in  the  smallest  degree  un- 
derstood. But  in  examining  and  re-examining  many  of  his 
Fragments,  we  find  ourselves  carried  into  more  complex,  more 
subtle  regions  of  thought  than  any  we  are  elsewhere  ac- 
quainted with  : here  we  cannot  always  find  our  own  latitude 
and  longitude,  sometimes  not  even  approximate  to  finding 
them  ; much  less  teach  others  such  a secret. 

What  has  been  already  quoted  may  afford  some  knowledge 
of  Novalis,  in  the  characters  of  Philosopher  and  Critic  :•  there 
is  one  other  aspect  under  which  it  would  be  still  more  curious 
to  view  and  exhibit  him,  but  still  more  difficult, — we  mean 
that  of  his  Religion.  Novalis  nowhere  specially  records  his 
creed,  in  these  Writings : he  many  times  expresses,  or  im- 
plies, a zealous,  heartfelt  belief  in  the  Christian  system  ; yet 
with  such  adjuncts  and  coexisting  persuasions,  as  to  us  might 
seem  rather  surprising.  One  or  two  more  of  these  his  Aphor- 
isms, relative  to  this  subject,  we  shall  cite,  as  likely  to  be  bet- 
ter than  any  description  of  ours.  The  whole  Essay  at  the  end 
of  Volume  First,  entitled  Die  Christenheit  oder  Europa  (Chris- 
tianity or  Europe)  is  also  well  worthy  of  study,  in  this  as  in 
many  other  points  of  view. 

‘ Religion  contains  infinite  sadness.  If  we  are  to  love  God, 
he  must  be  in  distress  ( half sbediirf tig , help-needing).  In  how 
far  is  this  condition  answered  in  Christianity  ? — 

‘ Spinoza  is  a God  - intoxicated  man  ( Gott  - trunlcener 
Mensch). — 

‘ Is  the  Devil,  as  Father  of  Lies,,  himself  but  a necessary 
illusion-  ?— 


NO  VALIS. 


121 


‘ The  Catholic  Religion  is  to  a certain  extent  applied 
Christianity.  Fichteh  Philosophy  too  is  perhaps  applied 
Christianity. — 

‘ Can  Miracles  work  Conviction  ? Or  is  not  real  Convim 
lion,  this  highest  function  of  our  soul  and  personality,  the 
only  true  God-announcing  Miracle  ? 

1 The  Christian  Religion  is  especially  remarkable,  moreover, 
as  it  so  decidedly  lays  claim  to  mere  good-will  in  Man,  to  his 
essential  Temper,  and  values  this  independently  of  all  Culture 
and  Manifestation.  It  stands  in  opposition  to  Science  and  to 
Art,  and  properly  to  Enjoyment.1 

‘ Its  origin  is  with  the  common  people.  It  inspires  the 
great  majority  of  the  limited  in  this  Earth. 

‘ It  is  the  Light  that  begins  to  shine  in  the  Darkness. 

‘ It  is  the  root  of  all  Democracy,  the  highest  Fact  in  the 
Rights  of  Man  ( die  hochste  Thatsache  der  Popularity). 

‘ Its  unpoetical  exterior,  its  resemblance  to  a modern 
family-picture,  seems  only  to  be  lent  it.1 

‘ Martyrs  are  spiritual  heroes.  Christ  was  the  greatest 
martyr  of  our  species  ; through  him  has  martyrdom  become 
infinitely  significant  and  holy. — 

‘ The  Bible  begins  nobly,  with  Paradise,  the  symbol  of 
youth  ; and  concludes  with  the  Eternal  Kingdom,  the  Holy 
City.  Its  two  main  divisions,  also,  are  genuine  grand-his- 
torical divisions  (cicht  grosshistorisch) . For  in  every  grand- 
historical  compartment  ( Glied ),  the  grand  history  must  lie,  as 
it  were,  symbolically  re-created  ( verjungt , made  young  again). 
The  beginning  of  the  New  Testament  is  the  second  higher 
Fall  (the  Atonement  of  the  Fall),  and  the  commencement  of 
the  new  Period.  The  history  of  every  individual  man  should 
be  a Bible.  Christ  is  the  new  Adam.  A Bible  is  the  highest 
problem  of  Authorship. — 

‘ As  yet  there  is  no  Religion.  You  must  first  make  a 
Seminary  ( Bildungs-schule ) of  genuine  Religion.  Think  ye 
that  there  is  Religion  ? Religion  has  to  be  made  and  pro- 
duced ( gemacht  und  hervorgebracht ) by  the  union  of  a number 
of  persons.’ 

Hitherto  our  readers  have  seen  nothing  of  Novalis  in  his 
character  of  Poet,  properly  so  called  ; the  Pupils  at  Sais 
being  fully  more  of  a scientific  than  poetic  nature.  As  hinted 
above,  we  do  not  account  his  gifts  in  this  latter  province  as 


1 Italics  also  in  tlie  text. 


122 


NOV  ALLS. 


of  tlie  first,  or  even  of  a high  order  ; unless,  indeed,  it  be 
true,  as  be  himself  maintains,  that  ‘ the  distinction  of  Poet 
and  Philosopher  is  apparent  only,  and  to  the  injury  of  both.’ 
In  his  professedly  poetical  compositions  there  is  an  indubit- 
able prolixity,  a degree  of  languor,  not  weakness  but  sluggish- 
ness ; the  meaning  is  too  much  diluted ; and  diluted,  we 
might  say,  not  in  a rich,  lively,  varying  music,  as  we  find  in 
Tieck,  for  example  ; but  rather  in  a low-voiced,  not  unme- 
lodious  monotony,  the  deep  hum  of  which  is  broken  only  at 
rare  intervals,  though  sometimes  by  tones  of  purest  and 
almost  spiritual  softness.  We  here  allude  chiefly  to  his  un- 
metrical  pieces,  his  prose  fictions : indeed  the  metrical  are 
few  in  number  ; for  the  most  part,  on  religious  subjects ; and 
in  spite  of  a decided  truthfulness  both  in  feeling  and  word, 
seem  to  bespeak  no  great  skill  or  practice  in  that  form  of  com- 
position. In  his  prose  style  he  may  be  accounted  happier  ; 
he  aims  in  general  at  simplicity,  and  a certain  familiar  ex- 
pressiveness : here  and  there  in  his  more  elaborate  passages, 
especially  in  his  Hymns  to  the  Night  he  has  reminded  us  of 
Herder. 

These  Hymns  to  tlie  Night,  it  will  be  remembered,  were 
written  shortly  after  the  death  of  his  mistress  : in  that  period 
of  deep  sorrow,  or  rather  of  holy-  deliverance  from  sorrow. 
Novalis  himself  regarded  them'  as  his  most  finished  produc- 
tions. They  are  of  a strange,  veiled,  almost  enigmatical  char- 
acter ; nevertheless,  more  deeply  examined,  they  appear  no- 
wise without  true  poetic  worth ; there  is  a vastness,  an 
immensity  of  idea  ; a still  solemnity  reigns  in  them,  a solitude 
almost  as  of  extinct  worlds.  Here  and  there  too  some  light- 
beam  visits  us  in  the  void  deep  ; and  we  cast  a glance,  clear 
and  wondrous,  into  the  secrets  of  that  mysterious  soul.  A 
full  commentary  on  the  Hymns  to  the  Night  would  be  an  ex- 
position of  Novalis’s  whole  theological  and  moral  creed  ; for 
it  lies  recorded  there,  though  symbolically,  and  in  lyric,  not  in 
didactic  language.  We  have  translated  the  Third,  as  the 
shortest  and  simplest ; imitating  its  light,  half -measured  style, 
above  all  deciphering  its  vague  deep-laid  sense,  as  accurately  as 
we  could.  By  the  word  ‘Night,’  it  will  be  seen,  Xovalis  means 


NO  VALIS. 


123 


much  more  than  the  common  opposite  of  Day.  ‘ Light,  seems, 
in  these  poems,  to  shadow  forth  our  terrestrial  life ; Night 
the  primeval  and  celestial  life  : 

‘ Once  when  I was  sheddigg  bitter  tears,  when  dissolved  in 
pain  my  Hope  had  melted  away,  and  I stood  solitary  by  the 
grave  that  in  its  dark  narrow  space  concealed  the  Form  of  my 
life  ; solitary  as  no  other  had  been  ; chased  by  unutterable 
anguish  ; powerless  ; one  thought  and  that  of  misery  ; — here 
now  as  I looked  round  for  help  ; forward  could  not  go,  nor 
backward,  but  clung  to  a transient  extinguished  Life  with 
unutterable  longing  ; — lo,  from  the  azure  distance,  down  from 
the  heights  of  my  old  Blessedness,  came  a chill  breath  of  Dusk, 
and  suddenly  the  band  of  Birth,  the  fetter  of  Light  was 
snapped  asunder.  Vanishes  the  Glory  of  Earth,  and  with  it 
my  Lamenting ; rushes  together  the  infinite  Sadness  into  a 
new  unfathomable  World  : thou  Night's-inspiration,  Slumber 
of  Heaven,  earnest  over  me  ; the  scene  rose  gently  aloft ; over 
the  scene  hovered  my  enfranchised  new-born  sjsirit  ; to  a cloud 
of  dust  that  grave  changed  itself  ; through  the  cloud  I beheld 
the  transfigured  features  of  my  Beloved.  In  her  eyes  lay 
Eternity  ; I clasped  her  hand,  and  my  tears  became  a glitter- 
ing indissoluble  chain.  Centuries  of  Ages  moved  away  into 
the  distance,  like  thunder-clouds.  On  her  neck  I wept,  for 
this  new  life,  enrapturing  tears. — It  was  my  first,  only  Dream  ; 
and  ever  since  then  do  I feel  this  changeless  everlasting  faith 
in  the  Heaven  of  Night,  and  its  Sun  my  Beloved.’ 

What  degree  of  critical  satisfaction,  what  insight  into  the 
grand  crisis  of  Novalis’s  spiritual  history,  which  seems  to  be 
here  shadowed  forth,  our  readers  may  derive  from  this  Third 
Hymn  to  the  Night,  we  shall  not  pretend  to  conjecture. . Mean- 
while, it  were  giving  them  a false  impression  of  the  Poet,  did 
we  leave  him  here  ; exhibited  only  under  his  more  mystic 
aspects : as  if  his  Poetry  were  exclusively  a thing  of  Allegory, 
dwelling  amid  Darkness  and  Vacuity,  far  from  all  paths  of  or- 
dinary mortals  and  their  thoughts.  Novalis  can  write  in  the 
most  common  style,  as  well  as  in  this  most  uncommon  one  ; 
and  there  too  not  without  originality.  By  far  the  greater 
part  of  this  First  Volume  is  occupied  with  a Romance,  Hein- 
rich von  Ofterdingen,  written,  so  far  as  it  goes,  much  in  the 


124 


NO  VALIS. 


every-day  manner  ; we  have  adverted  the  less  to  it,  because 
we  nowise  reckoned  it  among  his  most  remarkable  composi- 
tions. Like  many  of  the  others,  it  has  been  left  as  a Frag- 
ment ; nay,  from  the  account  Tieck  gives  of  its  ulterior  plan, 
and  how  from  the  solid  prose  world  of  the  First  part,  this 
‘ Apotheosis  of  Poetry  ’ was  to  pass,  in  the  Second,  into  a 
mythical,  fairy  and  quite  fantastic  world,  critics  have  doubted 
‘whether,  strictly  speaking,  it  could  have  been  completed. 
From  this  Avork  we  select  two  passages,  as  specimens  of  No- 
valis’s  manner  in  the  more  common  style  of  composition  ; 
premising,  which  in  this  one  instance  Ave  are  entitled  to  do, 
that  whatever  excellence  they  may  have  Avill  be  universally  ap- 
preciable. The  first  is  the  introduction  to  the  whole  Narra- 
tive, as  it  Avere  the  text  of  the  whole  ; the  ‘ Blue  Flower  ’ there 
spoken  of  being  Poetry,  the  real  object,  passion  and  vocation 
of  young  Heinrich,  Avliich,  through  manifold  adventures,  ex- 
ertions and  sufferings,  he  is  to  seek  and  find.  His  history 
commences  thus  : 

‘ The  old  people  were  already  asleep  ; the  clock  was  beating 
its  monotonous  tick  on  the  wall  ; the  wind  blustered  over 
the  rattling  windows  ; by  turns,  the  chamber  Avas  lighted  by 
the  sheen  of  the  moon.  The  young  man  lay  restless  in  his 
bed  ; and  thought  of  the  stranger  and  his  stories.  “ Not  the 
treasures  is  it,”  said  he  to  himself,  “ that  have  aAvakened  in  me 
so  unspeakable  a desire  ; far  from  me  is  all  covetousness  ; but 
the  Blue  Flower  is  what  I long  to  behold.  It  lies  incessantly 
in  my  heart,  and  I can  think  and  fancy  of  nothing  else.  Never 
did  I feel  so  before : it  is  as  if,  till  noAA\  I had  been  dreaming, 
or  as  if  sleep  had  carried  me  into  another  world  ; for  in  the 
Avorld  I- used  to  live  in,  Avho  troubled  himself  about  flowers'? 
Such  wild  passion  for  a Flower  was  never  heard  of  there.  But 
Avhence  could  that  stranger  have  come  ? None,  of  us  ever  saw 
such  a man  ; yet  I knoAV  not  how  I alone  was  so  caught  with  his 
discourse  : the  rest  heard  the  very  same,  yet  none  seems  to 
mind  it.  And  then  that  I cannot  even  speak  of  my  strange  con- 
dition ! I feel  such  rapturous  contentment ; and  only  then 
when  I have  not  the  Flower  rightly  before  my  eyes,  does  so 
deep  heartfelt  an  eagerness  come  over  me  : these  things  no  one 
will  or  can  believe.  I could  fancy  I were  mad.  if  I did  not  see, 
did  not  think  Avith  such  perfect  clearness  ; since  that  day,  all 


JSTO  VAL1S. 


125 


is  far  better  known  to  me.  I bave  beard  tell  of  ancient  times  ; 
bow  animals  and  trees  and  rocks  used  to  speak  witb  men. 
This  is  even  my  feeling  ; as  if  they  were  on  tbe  point  of 
breaking  out,  and  I could  see  in  them,  wbat  they  wished  to  say 
to  me.  There  must  be  many  a word  which  I know  not ; did 
I know  more,  I could  better  comprehend  these  matters.  Once 
I liked  dancing  ; now  I had  rather  think  to  the  music.” — The 
young  man  lost  himself,  by  degrees,  in  sweet  fancies,  and  fell 
asleep.  He  dreamed  first  of  immeasureable  distances,  find 
wild  unknown  regions.  He  wandered  over  seas  with  incredi- 
ble speed  ; strange  animals  he  saw  ; he  lived  with  many  varie- 
ties of  men,  now  in  war,  in  wild  tumult,  now  in  peaceful  huts. 
He  wasdaken  captive,  and  fell  into  the  lowest  wretchedness. 
All  emotions  rose  to  a height  as  yet  unknown  to  him.  He 
lived  through  an  infinitely  variegated  life  ; died  and  came 
back  ; loved  to  the  highest  passion,  and  then  again  was  forever 
parted  from  his  loved  one.  At  length  towards  morning,  as  the 
dawn  broke  up  without,  his  spirit  also  grew  stiller,  the  images 
grew  clearer  and  more  permanent.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was 
walking  alone  in  a dark  wood.  Only  here  and  there  did  day 
glimmer  through  the  green  net.  Erelong  he  came  to  a rocky 
chasm,  which  mounted  upwards.  He  had  to  climb  over  many 
crags,  which  some  former  stream  had  rolled  down.  The  higher 
he  came,  the  lighter  grew  the  wood.  At  last  he  arrived  at  a lit- 
tle meadow,  which  lay  on  the  declivity  of  the  mountain.  Be- 
yond the  meadow  rose  a high  cliff,  at  the  foot  of  which  he  ob- 
served an  opening,  that  seemed  to  be  the  entrance  of  a pas- 
sage hewn  in  the  rock.  The  passage  led  him  easily  on,  for 
some.time,  to  a great  subterranean  expanse,  out  of  which  from 
afar  a bright  gleam  was  visible.  On  entering,  he  perceived  a 
strong  beam  of  light,  which  sprang  as  if  from  a fountain  to  the 
roof  of  the  cave,  and  sprayed  itself  into  innumerable  sparks, 
which  collected  below  in  a great  basin  : the  beam  glanced 
like  kindled  gold  ; not  the  faintest  noise  was  to  be  heard,  a 
sacred  silence  encircled  the  glorious  sight.  He  approached 
the  basin,  which  waved  and  quivered  with  infinite  hues.  The 
walls  of  the  cave  were  coated  with  this  iluid,  which  was  not  hot 
but  cool,  and  on  the  walls  threw  out  a faint  bluish  light.  He 
dipt  his  hand  in  the  basin,  and  wetted  his  lips.  It  was  as  if 
the  breath  of  a spirit  went  through  him  ; and  he  felt  himself 
in  his  inmost  heart  strengthened  and  refreshed.  An  irresisti- 
ble desire  seized  him  to  bathe  ; he  undressed  himself  and 
slept  into  the  basin.  He  felt  as  if  a sunset  cloud  were  float- 
ing round  him  ; a heavenly  emotion  streamed  over  his  soul ; 


126 


NOVALIS. 


in  deep  pleasure  innumerable  thoughts  strove  to  blend  within 
him  ; new,  unseen  images  arose,  which  also  melted  together, 
and  became  visible  beings  around  him  ; and  every  wave  of 
that  lovely  element  pressed  itself  on  him  like  a soft  bosom. 
The  flood  seemed  a Spirit  of  Beauty,  which  from  moment  to 
moment  was  taking  form  round  the  youth. 

‘Intoxicated  with  rapture,  and  yet  conscious  of  every  im- 
pression, he  floated  softly  down  that  glittering  stream,  which 
flowed  out  from  the  basin  into  the  rocks.  A sort  of  sweet 
slumber  fell  upon  him,  in  which  he  dreamed  indescribable  ad- 
ventures, and  out  of  which  a new  light  awoke  him.  He  found 
himself  on  a soft  sward  at  the  margin  of  a spring,  which  welled 
out  into  the  air,  and  seemed  to  dissipate  itself  there.  Dark- 
blue  rocks,  with  many-coloured  veins,  rose  at.  some  distance  ; 
the  daylight  which  encircled  him  was  clearer  and  milder  than 
the  common  ; the . sky  was  black-blue,  and  altogether  pure. 
But  what  attracted  him  infinitely  most  was  a high,  light-blue 
Flower,  which  stood  close  by  the  spring,  touching  it  with  its 
broad  glittering  leaves.  Bound  it  stood  innumerable  flowers 
of  all  colours,  and  the  sweetest  perfume  filled  the  air.  He 
saw  nothing  but  the  Blue  Flower  ; and  gazed  on  it  long  with 
nameless  tenderness.  At  last  he  was  for  approaching,  when 
all  at  once  it  began  to  move  and  change  ; the  leaves  grew 
more  resplendent,  and  clasped  themselves  round  the  waxing 
stem  ; the  Flower  bent  itself  towards  him  ; and  the  petals 
showed  like  a blue  spreading  ruff,  in  which  hovered  a lovely 
face.  His  sweet  astonishment  at  this  transformation  was  in- 
creasing,— when  suddenly  his  mother’s  voice  awoke  him,  and 
he  found  himself  in  the  house  of  his  parents,  which  the  morn- 
ing sun  was  already  gilding.’ 


Our  next  and  last  extract  is  likewise  of  a dream.  Young 
Heinrich  with  his  mother  travels  a long  journey  to  see  his 
grandfather  at  Augsburg  ; converses,  on  the  way,  with  mer- 
chants, miners,  and  red-cross  warriors  (for  it  is  in  the  time  of 
the  Crusades)  ; and  soon  after  his  arrival  falls  immeasurably 
in  love  with  Matilda,  the  Poet  Ivlin gsohr’s  daughter,  whose 
face  was  that  fairest  one  he  had  seen  in  his  old  vision  of  the 
Blue  Flower.  Matilda,  it  would  appear,  is  to  be  taken  from 
him  by  death  (as  Sophie  was  from  Xovalis) : meanwhile, 
dreading  no  such  event,  Heinrich  abandon^  himself  with  full 
heart  to  his  new  emotions  : 


NO  VALIS. 


127 


‘ He  went  to  the  window.  The  choir  of  the  Stars  stood  in 
the  deep  heaven  ; and  in  the  east,  a white  gleam  announced 
the  coming  day. 

‘Full  of  rapture,  Heinrich  exclaimed  : “You,  ye  everlasting 
Stars,  ye  silent  wanderers,  I call  you  to  witness  my  sacred 
oath.  For  Matilda  will  I live,  and  eternal  faith  shall  unite 
my  heart  and  hers.  For  me  too,  the  morn  of  an  everlasting 
day  is  dawning.  The  night  is  by  : to  the  rising  Sun,  I kindle 
myself  as  a sacrifice  that  will  never  be  extinguished.” 

‘ Heinrich  was  heated  ; and  not  till  late,  towards  morning, 
did  he  fall  asleep.  In  strange  dreams,  the  thoughts  of  his 
sold  embodied  themselves.  A deep-blue  river  gleamed  from 
the  plain.  On  its  smooth  surface  floated  a bark  ; Matilda  was 
sitting  there,  and  steering.  She  was  adorned  with  garlands  ; 
ivas  singing  a simple  Song,  and  looking  over  to  him  with  fond 
sadness.  His  bosom  was  full  of  anxiety.  He  knew  not  why. 
The  sky  was  clear,  the  stream  calm.  Her  heavenly  counte- 
nance was  mirrored  in  the  waves.  All  at  once  the  bark  began 
to  whirl.  He  called  earnestly  to  her.  She  smiled,  and  laid 
down  her  oar  in  the  boat,  which  continued  whirling.  An  un- 
speakable terror  took  hold  of  him.  He  dashed  into  the 
stream  ; but  he  cotdd  not  get  forward  ; the  water  carried  him. 
She  beckoned,  she  seemed  as  if  she  wished  to  say  something 
to  him  ; the  bark  wTas  filling  with  water  ; yet  she  smiled  with 
unspeakable  affection,  and  looked  cheerfully  into  the  vortex. 
All  at  once  it  drew  her- in.  A faint  breath  rippled  over  the 
stream,  which  flowed  on  as  calm  and  glittering  as  before.  His 
horrid  agony  robbed  him  of  consciousness.  His  heart  ceased 
beating.  On  returning  to  himself,  he  was  again  on  dry  land. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  floated  far.  It  was  a strange  region. 
He  knew  not  what  had  passed  with  him.  His  heart  was  gone. 
Unthinking  he  walked  deeper  into  the  country.  He  felt  inex- 
pressibly weary.  A little  well  gushed  from  a hill ; it  sounded 
like  perfect  bells.  With  , his  hand  he  lifted  some  drops,  and 
wetted  his  parched  lips.  Like  a sick  dream,  lay  the  frightful 
event  behind  him.  Farther  and  farther  he  walked  ; flowers 
and  trees  spoke  to  him.  He  felt  so  well,  so  at  home  in  the 
scene.  Then  he  heard  that  simple  Song  again.  He  ran  after 
the  sounds.  Suddenly  some  one  held  him  by  the  clothes. 
“Dear  Henry,”  cried  a well-known  voice.  He  looked  round, 
and  Matilda  clasped  him  in  her  arms.  “ Why  didst  thou  run 
from  me,  dear  heart?”  said  'she,  breathing  deep  : “I  could 
scarcely  overtake  thee.”  Heinrich  wept.  He  pressed  her  to 
him.  “ Where  is  the  river  ? ” cried  he  in  tears. — “ Seest  thou 


128 


NOYAUS. 


not  its  blue  waves  above  us  ? ” He  looked  up,  and  the  blue 
river  was  flowing  softly  over  their  heads.  “Where  are  we, 
dear  Matilda?” — “With  our  Fathers.” — “Shall  we  stay  to- 
gether?”— “Forever,”  answered  she,  pressing  her  lips  to  his, 
and  so  clasping  him  that  she  could  not  again  quit  hold.  She 
put  a wondrous,  secret  Word  in  his  mouth,  and  it  pierced 
through  all  his  being.  He  was  about  to  repeat  it,  when  his 
Grandfather  called,  and  he  awoke.  He  would  have  given  his 
life  to  remember  that  Word.’ 

This  image  of  Death,  and  of  the  Paver  being  the  Sky  in 
that  other  and  eternal  country,  seems  to  us  a fine  and  touch- 
ing one  : there  is  in  it  a trace  of  that  simple  sublimity,  that 
soft  still  pathos,  which  are  characteristics  of  Xovalis,  and 
doubtless  the  highest  of  his  specially  poetic  gifts. 

But  on  these,  and  what  other  gifts  and  deficiencies  pertain 
to  him,  we  can  no  farther  insist : for  now,  after  such  multifa- 
rious quotations,  and  more  or  less  stinted  commentaries,  we 
must  consider  our  little  enterprise  in  respect  of  Xovalis  to 
have  reached  its  limits  ; to  be,  if  not  completed,  concluded. 
Our  reader  has  heard  him  largely  ; on  a great  variety  of 
topics,  selected  and  exhibited  here  in  such  manner  as  seemed 
the  fittest  for  our  object,  and  with  a true  wish  on  our  part, 
that  what  little  judgment  was  in  the  mean  while  to  be  formed 
of  such  a man,  might  be  a fair  and  honest  one.  Some  of  the 
passages  we  have  translated  will  appear  obscure  ; others,  we 
hope,  are  not  without  symptoms  of  a wise  and  deep  meaning  ; 
the  rest  may  excite  wonder,  which  wonder  again  it  will  de- 
pend on  each  reader  for  himself,  whether  he  turn  to  right 
account  or  to  wrong  account,  whether  he  entertain  as  the 
parent  of  Knowledge,  or  as  the  daughter  of  Ignorance.  For 
the  great  body  of  readers,  we  are  aware,  there  can  be  little 
profit  iu  Xovalis,  who  rather  employs  our  time  than  helps  us 
to  kill  it ; for  such  auy  farther  study  of  him  would  be  unad- 
visable.  To  others  again,  who  prize  Truth -as  the  end  of  all 
reading,  especially  to  that  class  who  cultivate  moral  science 
as  the  development  of  purest  and  highest  Truth,  we  can  rec- 
ommend the  perusal  and  reperusal  of  Xovalis  with  almost 
perfect  confidence.  If  they  feel,  with  us,  that  the  most  prof- 


NOVALIS. 


129 


itable  employment  any  book  can  give  them,  is  to  study  hon- 
estly some  earnest,  deep-minded,  truth-loving  Man,  to  work 
their  way  into  his  manner  of  thought,  till  they  see  the  world 
with  his  eyes,  feel  as  he  felt  and  judge  as  he  judged,  neither 
believing  nor  denying,  till  they  can  in  some  measure  so  feel 
and  judge, — then  we  may  assert,  that  few  books  known  to  us 
are  more  worthy  of  their  attention  than  this.  They  will  find 
it,  if  we  mistake  not,  an  unfathomed  mine  of  philosophical 
ideas,  where  the  keenest  intellect  may  have  occupation  enough ; 
and  in  such  occupation,  without  looking  farther,  reward  enough. 
All  this,  if  the  reader  proceed  on  candid  principles  ; if  not,  it 
will  be  all  otherwise.  To  no  man,  so  much  as  to  Novalis  is 
that  famous  motto  applicable  : 

Leser,  wie  gefalV  ich  Dir? 

Leser,  wie  gefallst  Du  mir? 

Reader,  how  likest  thou  me  ? 

Reader,  how  like  I thee  ? 

For  the  rest,  it  were  but  a false  proceeding  did  we  attempt 
any  formal  character  of  Novalis  in  this  place  ; did  we  pretend 
with  such  means  as  ours  to  reduce  that  extraordinary  nature 
under  common  formularies  ; and  in  few  words  sum  up  the 
net  total  of  his  worth  and  worthlessness.  We  have  repeat- 
edly expressed  our  own  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  matter, 
and  our  entire  despair  of  bringing  even  an  approximate 
picture  of  it  before  readers  so  foreign  to  him.  The  kind 
words,  ‘amiable  enthusiast,’  ‘poetic  dreamer;’  or  the  unkind 
ones,  ‘German  mystic,’  ‘crackbrained  rhapsodist,’  are  easily 
spoken  and  written  ; but  would  avail  little  in  this  instance. 
If  we  are  not  altogether  mistaken,  Novalis  cannot  be  ranged 
under  any  one  of  these  noted  categories ; but  belongs  to  a 
higher  and  much  less  known  one,  the  significance  of  which  is 
perhaps  also  worth  studying,  at  all  events  will  not  till  after 
long  study'  become  clear  to  us. 

Meanwhile  let  the  reader  accept  some  vague  impressions  of 
ours  on  this  subject,  since  we  have  no  fixed  judgment  to  offer 
him.  We  might  say,  that  the  chief  excellence  we  have  re- 
9 


130 


NOVALIS. 


marked  in  Novaks  is  liis  to  us  truly  wonderful  subtlety  of  in- 
tellect ; bis  power  of  intense  abstraction,  of  pursuing  the  deep- 
est and  most  evanescent  ideas  through  then’  thousand  com- 
plexities, as  it  were,  with  lynx  vision,  and  to  the  very  limits 
of  human  Thought.  He  was  well  skilled  in  mathematics, 
and,  as  we  can  easily  believe,  fond  of  that  science  ; but  his  is 
a far  finer  species  of  endowment  than  any  required  in  mathe- 
matics, where  the  mind,  from  the  very  beginning  of  Euclid  to 
the  end  of  Laplace,  is  assisted  with  visible  symbols,  with  safe 
implements  for  thinking  ; nay,  at  least  in  what  is  called  the 
higher  mathematics,  has  often  little  more  than  a mechanical 
superintendence  to  exercise  over  these.  This  power  of  ab- 
stract meditation,  when  it  is  so  sure  and  clear  as  we  some- 
times find  it  with  Novaks,  is  a much  higher  and  rarer  one  ; its 
element  is  not  mathematics,  but  that  Mathesis,  of  which  it  has 
been  said  many  a Great  Calculist  has  not  even  a notion.  In 
this  power,  truly,  so  far  as  logical  and  not  moral  power  is 
concerned,  kes  the  summary  of  all  Philosophic  talent : which 
talent,  accordingly,  we  imagine  Novaks  to  have  possessed  in 
a very  high  degree  ; in  a higher  degree  than  almost  any  other 
modern  writer  Ave  have  met  with. 

His  chief  fault,  again,  figures  itself  to  us  as  a certain  undue 
softness,  a want  of  rapid  energy  ; something  which  we  might 
term  passiveness  extending  both  over  his  mind  and  his  char- 
, acter.  There  is  a tenderness  in  Novaks,  a purity,  a clearness, 
almost  as  of  a woman  ; but  he  has  not,  at  least  not  at  ak‘  in 
that  degree,  the  emphasis  and  resolute  force  of  a man.  Thus, 
in  his  poetical  delineations,  as  we  complained  above,  he  is 
too  diluted  and  diffuse  ; not  verbose  properly  ; not  so  much 
abounding  in  superfluous  words  as  in  superfluous  circum- 
stances, which  indeed  is  but  a degree  better.  In  his  philo- 
sophical speculations,  we  feel  as  if,  under  a different  form, 
the  same  fault  were  now  and  then  manifested.  Here  again, 
he  seems  to  us,  in  one  sense,  too  languid,  too  passive.  He 
sits,  we  might  say,  among  the  rich,  fine,  thousandfold  combi- 
nations, which  his  mind  almost  of  itself  presents  him  ; but, 
perhaps,  he  shows  too  little  activity  in  the  process,  is  too  lax 
in  separating  the  true  from  the  doubtful,  is  not  even  at  the 


NOVALIS. 


131 


trouble  to  express  bis  truth  -with  any  laborious  accuracy. 
With  his  stillness,  with  his  deep  love  of  Nature,  his  mild, 
lofty,  spiritual  tone  of  contemplation,  he  comes  before  us  in  a 
sort  of  Asiatic  character,  almost  like  our  ideal  of  sprue  an- 
tique Gymnosophist,  and  with  the  weakness  as  well  as  the 
strength  of  an  Oriental.  However,  it  should  be  remembered 
that  his  works  both  poetical  and  philosophical,  as  we  now  see 
them,  appear  under  many  disadvantages  ; altogether  imma- 
ture, and  not  as  doctrines  and  delineations,  but  as  the  rude 
draught  of  such  ; in  which,  had  they  been  completed,  much 
was  to  have  changed  its  shape,  and  this  fault,  with  many 
others,  might  have  disappeared.  It  may  be,  therefore,  that 
this  is  only  a superficial  fault,  or  even  only  the  appearance  of 
a fault,  and  has  its  origin  in  these  circumstances,  and  in  our 
imperfect  understanding  of  him.  In  personal  and  bodily 
habits,  at  least,  Novalis  appears  to  have  been  the  opposite  of 
inert  ; we  hear  expressly  of  his  quickness  and  vehemence 
of  movement. 

In  regard  to  the  character  of  his  genius,  or  rather  perhaps 
of  his  literary  significance,  and  the  form  under  which  he  dis- 
played his  genius,  Tieck  thinks  he  may  be  likened  to  Dante. 
‘ For  him,’  says  he,  ‘ it  had  become  the  most  natural  disposi- 
‘ tion  to  regard  the  commonest  and  nearest  as  a wonder,  and 
‘ the  strange,  the  supernatural  as  something  common  ; men’s 
‘every-day  life  itself  lay  round  him  like  a wondrous  fable, 
* and  those  regions  which  the  most  dream  of  or  doubt  of  as 
‘ of  a thing  distant,  incomprehensible,  were  for  him  a beloved 
‘ home.  Thus  did  he,  uncorrupted  by  examples,  find  out  for 
‘ himself  a new  method  of  delineation  ; and  in  his  multiplicity 
‘ of  meaning  ; in  his  view  of  Love,  and  his  belief  in  Love,  as 
‘ at  once  his  Instructor,  his  Wisdom,  his  Religion  ; in  this  too 
‘ that  a single  grand  incident  of  life,  and  one  deep  sorrow  and 
‘ bereavement  grew  to  be  the  essence  of  his  Poetry  and  Con- 
‘ templation, — he,  alone  among  the  moderns,  resembles  the 
‘ lofty  Dante  ; and  sings  us,  like  him,  an  unfathomable,  mystic 
‘ song,  far  different  from  that  of  many  imitators,  who  think  to 
‘ put  on  mysticism  and  put  it  off,  like  a piece  of  dress.’  Con- 
sidering the  tendency  of  his  poetic  endeavours,  as  well  as  the 


132 


NO  Y ALTS. 


general  spirit  of  his  philosophy,  this  flattering  comparison 
may  turn  out  to  be  better  founded  than  at  first  sight  it  seems 
to  be.  Nevertheless,  were  we  required  to  illustrate  Novalis 
in  this  way,  which  at  all  times  must  be  a very  loose  one,  we 
should  incline  rather  to  call  him  the  German  Pascal  than  the 
German  Dante.  Between  Pascal  and  Novalis,  a lover  of  such 
analogies  might  trace  not  a few  points  of  resemblance.  Both 
are  of  the  purest,  most  affectionate  moral  nature  ; both  of  a 
high,  fine,  discursive  intellect  ; both  are  mathematicians  and 
naturalists,  yet  occupy  themselves  chiefly  with  Religion  ; nay, 
the  best  writings  of  both  are  left  in  the  shape  of  ‘ Thoughts,' 
materials  of  a grand  scheme,  which  each  of  them,  with  the 
views  peculiar  to  his  age,  had  planned,  we  may  say,  for  the 
furtherance  of  Religion,  and  which  neither  of  them  lived  to 
execute.  Nor  in  all  this  would  it  fail  to  be  carefully  re- 
marked, that  Novalis  was  not  the  French  but  the  German 
Pascal  ; and  from  the  intellectual  habits  of  the  one  and  the 
other,  many  national  contrasts  and  conclusions  might  be 
drawn ; which  we  leave  to  those  that  have  a taste  for  such 
parallels. 

We  have  thus  endeavoured  to  communicate  some  views  not 
of  what  is  vulgarly  called,  but  of  what  is  a German  Mystic  ; 
to  afford  English  readers  a few  glimpses  into  his  actual  house- 
hold establishment,  and  show  them  by  their  own  inspection 
how  he  lives  and  works.  We  have  done  it,  moreover,  not  in 
the  style  of  derision,  which  would  have  been  so  easy,  but  in 
that  of  serious  inquiry,  which  seemed  so  much  more  profit- 
able. For  this  we  anticipate  not  censure,  but  thanks  from  our 
readers.  Mysticism,  whatever  it  may  be,  should,  like  other 
actually  existing  things,  be  understood  in  well-informed  minds. 
We  have  observed,  indeed,  that  the  old-established  laugh  on 
this  subject  has  been  getting  rather  hollow  of  late  ; and  seems 
as  if,  ere  long,  it  would  in  a great  measure  die  away.  It  ap- 
pears to  us  that,  in  England,  there  is  a distinct  spirit  of  toler- 
ant and  sober  investigation  abroad,  in  regard  to  this  and  other 
kindred  matters ; a persuasion,  fast  spreading  wider  and 
wider,  that  the  plummet  of  French  or  Scotch  Logic,  excellent, 


NOVALIS. 


133 


nay  indispensable  as  it  is  for  surveying  all  coasts  and  har- 
bours, will  absolutely  not  sound  the  deep-seas  of  human  In- 
quiry ; and  that  many  a Voltaire  and  Hume,  well-gifted  and 
highly  meritorious  men,  were  far  wrong  in  reckoning  that 
when  their  six-hundred  fathoms  were  out,  they  had  reached 
the  bottom,  which,  as  in  the  Atlantic,  may  He  unknown  miles 
lower.  Six-hundred  fathoms  is  the  longest,  and  a most  valu- 
able nautical  line  : but  many  men  sound  with  six  and  fewer 
fathoms,  and  arrive  at  precisely  the  same  conclusion. 

‘ The  day  will  come,’  said  Lichtenberg,  in  bitter  irony,  ‘when 
‘ the  belief  in  God  wiH  be  like  that  in  nursery  Spectres  ; ’ or, 
as  Jean  Paul  has  it,  ‘ Of  the  World  will  be  made  a World-Ma- 
‘ chine,  of  the  iEthor  a Gas,  of  God  a Force,  and  of  the  Second 
‘ World — a Coffin.’  We  rather  think,  such  a day  will  not 
come.  At  all  events,  while  the  battle  is  still  waging,  and  that 
Coffin-and-Gas  Philosophy  has  not  yet  secured  itself  with  tithes 
and  penal  statutes,  let  there  be  free  scope  for  Mysticism,  or 
whatever  else  honestly  opposes  it.  A fair  field  and  no  favour, 
and  the  right  will  prosper  ! ‘ Our  present  time,’  says  Jean 

Paul  elsewhere,  ‘ is  indeed  a criticising  and  critical  time, 
‘ hovering  betwixt  the  wish  and  the  inability  to  believe  ; a 
‘ chaos  of  conflicting  times  : but  even  a chaotic  world  must 
‘ have  its  centre,  and  revolution  round  that  centre  ; there  is 
‘ no  pure  entire  Confusion,  but  all  such  presupposes  its  oppo- 
5 site,  before  it  can  begin.’ 


0 


I 


II 

111 

D 

30342 

I624L 

